珍惜记忆　Resolving to Honor Memories

Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories.Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.

～Thomas Fuller

The first time I walked into my mother's apartment after she died, I turned and bolted. The smell of her perfume, the sight of her eyeglasses, her magazines, her comb-and the absence of her-were just too much.

I couldn't go back for days.

But no matter how much I wanted to avoid it, there was the inevitable sad work of clearing out the place where Mom had lived for thirty-seven years. And nobody can prepare you for going through the personal effects of a parent you've loved and lost.If grief is an ambush, this sorting out is its handmaiden.

Ultimately, I took huge cartons, and with my husband's help, stockpiled the things I couldn't bear to part with. There was no rhyme or reason to this process-just pure instinct.

How could I leave behind the shoe box filled to the brim with every card we'd ever sent her, ordinary cards I'd picked out in a moment without even deliberating over the message?Every sappy birthday card and Mother's Day card was there, dated, and in its original envelope. Why hadn't I sent her nicer ones?

No matter where I went in the apartment there was something destined to stop me in my tracks and make me sob.

But I pushed on.

I scooped up the predictable things-my mother's china, the paintings that had been in my life since childhood, because they were part of the landscape of our house, and the scarves that still carried her scent.

Those cartons came back to our house, with my husband showing remarkable and loving patience with the excesses. And they got stashed in the basement, where I wouldn't see them often, let alone open them.

And that might have been that.

Except that one day during the spring after Mom's death, I had a reckoning：I was entertaining, and knew that a beautiful English casserole that my mother had loved would make a perfect centerpiece for our table, especially if I filled it with her recipe for Swedish meatballs.

That day, I made a promise to myself, one I wasn't at all sure I could keep：I would stop avoiding the bits and pieces of Mom's life-the tangible evidence of her world in the apartment that had claimed and framed her days. Gradually, I would integrate them into my life.

1 would begin with that casserole dish, one of her prized possessions, and her recipe box that contained the careful directions for her famous Swedish meatballs.

I would love to say that I simply did it. That I kept my resolve strong.But it took me a full week to bring myself just to open the first carton and pull out that lovely oval dish.Touching it made me weep.

It was somehow easier to dig out the recipe, and to place Mom's old wooden recipe box in a kitchen cabinet, out of sight for now, but not out of mind.

Small things marked enormous progress：I now carry my mother's deep blue eyeglass case in my own pocketbook. Initially, just seeing it among my things stunned me.But then I began to love its familiarity：how many times had I seen my dear mother reach for that case?She had loved it.Now I love it, too.

My mother's pearls are often around my neck. It took a while until that stopped feeling weird.Now it feels wonderful.

On cold days, I wear my mother's blue flannel bathrobe, the one I pulled out of the Goodwill pile at the last minute.“As old as the hills，”my mother used to say，“but it's warm.”That was enough of a rave for me.

But perhaps nothing is woven into my days and nights as completely and joyfully as the most unexpected of items.

One Mother's Day, late in Mom's life, we gifted her with a set of red cook ware-spunky and modern. At first, she insisted that we take it all back.Finally, she agreed to keep just one piece：a little red pot.

No utensil was ever more lovingly cared for. Mom polished it to a gleam, delighted to see something bright and new in what had become a weary kitchen.

That pot now sits on my stove. I use it as often as I can, and cherish it, because she did.

My resolution to keep my mother“with me”may sound foolish, even macabre.

But that little red pot stands as a symbol of what has turned out to be one of the most important resolutions of my life：to honor my mother by surrounding myself with the things she wore and touched and used.

I've learned through this resolve that there's great comfort in the mundane.

And that a little red pot can make remembering an act of love.

～Sally Friedman

回忆是过往事物的残留，尽管不再鲜明，却也依稀可见。

它们就像被封存在冰箱里、碗橱里的某些东西，静静地留在我们心灵的某个角落。

——托马斯·富勒

母亲去世后我第一次走进她的公寓，立刻就转身折了出去，把门重新锁上。刚进门就能闻到她的香水味，看见她的眼镜、杂志、梳子一如往常地摆放。只是桃花仍在，斯人已去，过了很多天我都无法再去。

但是无论再怎样想逃避，也无论有多么悲伤，我还是得把母亲居住了37年的公寓清扫出来。刚刚失去了挚爱的母亲，现在又要整理她的遗物，这种悲痛可想而知。尽管我有所准备，但在清理过程中，触景生情，还是时不时被突如其来的悲伤袭倒。

最后，我找来了几只大纸箱，丈夫帮我把这些东西都堆了进去。其实我心中充满不舍，但还是感到非做不可，没有理由，没有原因。

我怎么能忍心扔下那个鞋盒？它装满了我往年寄给母亲的贺卡，像生日卡、母亲节卡，样子都普普通通，里面的祝福语也都是随便写的大俗套。可母亲却非常仔细地把它们装在原来的信封里，并按时间顺序整齐地摆放好。为什么当初我没有寄好看一些的卡片给她呢？

她公寓的每个角落都有东西能勾起我的回忆，打乱我的计划，让我停下来，失声痛哭。

我勉强坚持了下来。

我留下了几件东西没打包：母亲的瓷器、几幅画和她的几条围巾。那几幅画自我记事起，就一直挂在她的公寓里，已经成了房子的组成部分，而围巾上甚至还留有她的香水味。

丈夫非常理解我，同意我把这些大纸箱子搬回家。我们把它塞到了地下室，这样就不必经常看到，自然也不会打开。

本来我就是这样计划的。

然而，就在母亲离开后的那个春季的一天，我突然转变了想法。当时我正在招待客人，突然想到，如果把那个母亲特别喜欢的英式小焙盘摆在我们的餐桌上，那将会非常合适。那个焙盘特别精致，如果里面盛的是她秘制的瑞典肉丸就再好不过了。

就在那一天，我对自己许下了一个承诺，尽管不确定是否能实现。我不能再逃避母亲留下的点点滴滴，留在那个公寓的各种物件，件件都陪伴过她，都留有她的痕迹。我决定，要让这些物件慢慢地融入我的生活。

就从那个焙盘开始吧，那曾是她挚爱的收藏。还有那个食谱盒，里面清楚地记着制作她拿手好菜瑞典肉丸的详细步骤。

做到这一切没有那么简单，履行我的诺言并非那么轻松。我花了整整一周时间才鼓起勇气打开第一个纸箱。抚摸着那个精美的椭圆餐盘，我又忍不住落下泪来。

接下来的事情要简单得多。我翻出了那张菜谱，把母亲那个用旧了的木质菜谱盒放在了自己厨房的碗橱里。这样我是不用时时看到它，但仍在我脑海盘旋。

我一点一点地慢慢进步。现在，我也可以把母亲的深蓝色眼镜盒放进自己的小挎包里了。刚开始，看见眼镜盒混在我的东西里就觉得扎眼难受。但是，我渐渐地爱上了眼镜盒给我带来的那种熟悉的感觉：我好多次看见亲爱的妈妈伸手去拿那个眼镜盒。妈妈喜欢它，现在我也喜欢它。

我的脖子现在就挂着母亲的珍珠项链。刚戴上的时候也觉得很别扭，过了好久才适应过来，现在我觉得这好极了。

天冷的时候，我就穿着母亲的蓝色法兰绒浴袍。这件浴袍我差一点就卖给了二手商品店，但想起妈妈曾经说过：“旧是旧了点，但穿上很保暖。”这句赞美就足够我留下这件浴袍。

但最出乎我意料的还是一些物件，它真的完全地融入了我的生活，让我领悟了快乐。

就在她去世前不久的某个母亲节，我们送给她一套红色炊具，看上去非常时尚别致。刚开始，她坚持不要，一定要我们拿回去，最后她妥协了，同意只要其中的一件：一个小红壶。

她对这个小红壶特别爱惜，擦得锃光瓦亮。她很高兴这件闪亮的新炊具能装点那个略有些老旧的厨房。

如今，这个壶就在我的炉子上。我尽可能地像妈妈在世时那样利用它、爱惜它。

我决心让母亲“陪”着我，尽管这听上去有点傻气，甚至还有些匪夷所思。

但是，这个小红壶代表了我人生最重要的一个决定：我要让母亲穿过的、摸过的、用过的东西环绕我。这就是我怀念母亲的方式。

立下这个决心，我懂得了在平凡的事物中也能找到安慰。

这个小红壶让回忆成了一种爱。

——萨莉·弗里德曼