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When I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter Talya, I knew three things. First, that I would have the baby, despite her father’s demand for an 1)abortion and less-than-ideal timing. Second, I knew that I loved her, from the moment I learned of 2)conception. Finally, I knew I would read to the baby, gladly and often. What I did not know, what I could not have known then, was that six weeks after she entered the world, I’d be burying her tiny body in the warm August earth.
Like many parents, months before my daughter’s birth, I made 3)fanciful, half-joking 4)projections. A strong and frequent kicker, I expected she’d play soccer; my 5)pomegranate and 6)kale 7)cravings foretold to me her future as a good eater. After her birth, her long fingers and toes convinced me her future was in piano and swimming. I imagined, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, that she’d be an architect, although in truth I have no idea what or who she might have become.
What I know: her fingers and toes were long; she was incredibly vital from the moment she was born. Talya never ate pomegranate or kale, but gained two and a half pounds in her short life on breast milk, nursing vigorously and often. She never played piano herself, but listened closely whenever her father tapped out a melody for her on his piano, 8)cradling her tiny body in one strong forearm. She came into the world, eyes open, 9)wailing, serious and certain in the announcement of her arrival. Five weeks later, Tayla died unexpectedly. Her death was labeled 10)SIDS-related.
Had she lived, I would have read to her constantly.
I visit her grave every day. She does not have a headstone yet, her stone will be unveiled on her11)yahrzeit, the anniversary of her death. All she has is a small patch of grass and four 12)studs, marking the boundaries of her plot, a tree that in the early days provided frequent shade, lots of sunshine. Summer turned to autumn, and the leaves fell, sharing a beautiful New England 13)vista. Winter came, covering her earth in snow so deep I could not reach her burial plot, offering a sad metaphor.
The love I felt for her, the love so many people felt for her in her short life, 14)lingers on. But I am still 15)in the deepest throes of grief, an agony from which I’m not sure I’ll ever completely recover. From which I am not sure I ever want to recover. I mourn her death, and I cry to have lost her in the world. I cry for myself, admittedly, selfish tears, to be without her. I cry for all of the things she’ll never get to do and for the person she won’t grow to become. I cry for all of the books I thought I’d read to her, and will never be able to read to her.
So when I go to the 16)cemetery, I bring her the books I might have read. And I read.
I read to her because I wanted her to love literature, and because in my life, books saved me, enabling me to cope with all of the things that I have not known how to handle. And maybe they still do. I realize, I am reading not to her, but to myself.
当我发现自己怀上女儿托亚的时候，我深知三件事。第一，我会生下这个孩子，尽管她的父亲要求我堕胎，尽管这不是怀孕的最佳时机。第二，从我得知自己怀孕那刻起，我就对这个孩子怀有爱意。最后，我知道我会常常兴致勃勃地读故事给孩子听。然而，我当时不知道的是——也万万没意料到——她只来到这个世界短短六个星期，到了八月，我竟要把那小小的身体埋入泛着暖意的泥土之中。
像所有父母那样，在孩子出生之前的好几个月，我都做着稀奇古怪又带着玩笑意味的白日梦。她时常在我肚子里捣腾，我就盼着她将来会是足球小将；我老是想吃石榴和甘蓝菜，这预示着她会是一名食家。她出世后，看着她手脚纤长，我深信她将来会成为钢琴家或是游泳健将。出于一些莫名的原因，我幻想她将在建筑界有所作为，但其实我对她将来会成为什么样的人物无从知晓。
但我知道的是：她手指和脚趾纤长；她从出生那刻起就非常活力充沛。托亚从没尝过石榴和甘蓝菜，但是通过母乳喂养，她在短短的时间内增重了2.5磅（约2.2斤），吃奶劲头很足，也吃得频。她从未触碰过钢琴，但当她爸爸用一只手有力地抱着她小小的身体，另一只手在他自己的钢琴上弹出曲调之时，她听得专心致志。她呱呱坠地，睁开眼睛，放声大哭，既严肃又肯定地宣告自己的到来。五个星期之后，她意外地离开了人世，诊断结果是她患了婴儿猝死综合症。
如果她尚在人世，我就会经常给她朗读。
我每天都到她的墓地那里去。她的坟头上并没有墓碑，要等到举行她的周年忌辰仪式上才能立碑。她有的只是一小格草地，那用四个钉子来界定的方寸之地，一棵早上能稍稍遮点荫的树，以及大片大片的阳光。夏去秋来，落叶纷纷，好一派新英格兰的诗情画意。冬临大地，银装素裹，厚厚的积雪把那方墓地掩埋了，令我无法触及，这是一个悲伤的隐喻。
在她短暂的一生里，我对她的爱以及那么多人对她的爱，久久驻留。但我仍然沉湎在至深的悲痛之中，一种我不确定自己能否克服的伤痛，一种我不确定自己是否愿意克服的伤痛。我为她的逝去哀痛，为她的离去而哀嚎。无可否认，我也为自己而哭泣，那是自私的泪水，因为她不在我身边了。我为她不能做的事以及不能成就的事业而哭泣。我为那些我未能朗读给她听的书籍而哭泣，永远也不能为她朗读了。
于是每次去墓地，我都会带上那些我可能会为她朗读的书籍，然后读给她听。
我朗读给她听是因为我想让她爱上文学，也因为，过去，在我的生命中，书籍拯救了我，让我学会了面对那些令我手足无措的事情。或许至今它们仍能助我度过难关。然后，我意识到，我不是朗读给她听，而是给我自己听。
Like many parents, months before my daughter’s birth, I made 3)fanciful, half-joking 4)projections. A strong and frequent kicker, I expected she’d play soccer; my 5)pomegranate and 6)kale 7)cravings foretold to me her future as a good eater. After her birth, her long fingers and toes convinced me her future was in piano and swimming. I imagined, for reasons that are not entirely clear to me, that she’d be an architect, although in truth I have no idea what or who she might have become.
What I know: her fingers and toes were long; she was incredibly vital from the moment she was born. Talya never ate pomegranate or kale, but gained two and a half pounds in her short life on breast milk, nursing vigorously and often. She never played piano herself, but listened closely whenever her father tapped out a melody for her on his piano, 8)cradling her tiny body in one strong forearm. She came into the world, eyes open, 9)wailing, serious and certain in the announcement of her arrival. Five weeks later, Tayla died unexpectedly. Her death was labeled 10)SIDS-related.
Had she lived, I would have read to her constantly.
I visit her grave every day. She does not have a headstone yet, her stone will be unveiled on her11)yahrzeit, the anniversary of her death. All she has is a small patch of grass and four 12)studs, marking the boundaries of her plot, a tree that in the early days provided frequent shade, lots of sunshine. Summer turned to autumn, and the leaves fell, sharing a beautiful New England 13)vista. Winter came, covering her earth in snow so deep I could not reach her burial plot, offering a sad metaphor.
The love I felt for her, the love so many people felt for her in her short life, 14)lingers on. But I am still 15)in the deepest throes of grief, an agony from which I’m not sure I’ll ever completely recover. From which I am not sure I ever want to recover. I mourn her death, and I cry to have lost her in the world. I cry for myself, admittedly, selfish tears, to be without her. I cry for all of the things she’ll never get to do and for the person she won’t grow to become. I cry for all of the books I thought I’d read to her, and will never be able to read to her.
So when I go to the 16)cemetery, I bring her the books I might have read. And I read.
I read to her because I wanted her to love literature, and because in my life, books saved me, enabling me to cope with all of the things that I have not known how to handle. And maybe they still do. I realize, I am reading not to her, but to myself.
当我发现自己怀上女儿托亚的时候，我深知三件事。第一，我会生下这个孩子，尽管她的父亲要求我堕胎，尽管这不是怀孕的最佳时机。第二，从我得知自己怀孕那刻起，我就对这个孩子怀有爱意。最后，我知道我会常常兴致勃勃地读故事给孩子听。然而，我当时不知道的是——也万万没意料到——她只来到这个世界短短六个星期，到了八月，我竟要把那小小的身体埋入泛着暖意的泥土之中。
像所有父母那样，在孩子出生之前的好几个月，我都做着稀奇古怪又带着玩笑意味的白日梦。她时常在我肚子里捣腾，我就盼着她将来会是足球小将；我老是想吃石榴和甘蓝菜，这预示着她会是一名食家。她出世后，看着她手脚纤长，我深信她将来会成为钢琴家或是游泳健将。出于一些莫名的原因，我幻想她将在建筑界有所作为，但其实我对她将来会成为什么样的人物无从知晓。
但我知道的是：她手指和脚趾纤长；她从出生那刻起就非常活力充沛。托亚从没尝过石榴和甘蓝菜，但是通过母乳喂养，她在短短的时间内增重了2.5磅（约2.2斤），吃奶劲头很足，也吃得频。她从未触碰过钢琴，但当她爸爸用一只手有力地抱着她小小的身体，另一只手在他自己的钢琴上弹出曲调之时，她听得专心致志。她呱呱坠地，睁开眼睛，放声大哭，既严肃又肯定地宣告自己的到来。五个星期之后，她意外地离开了人世，诊断结果是她患了婴儿猝死综合症。
如果她尚在人世，我就会经常给她朗读。
我每天都到她的墓地那里去。她的坟头上并没有墓碑，要等到举行她的周年忌辰仪式上才能立碑。她有的只是一小格草地，那用四个钉子来界定的方寸之地，一棵早上能稍稍遮点荫的树，以及大片大片的阳光。夏去秋来，落叶纷纷，好一派新英格兰的诗情画意。冬临大地，银装素裹，厚厚的积雪把那方墓地掩埋了，令我无法触及，这是一个悲伤的隐喻。
在她短暂的一生里，我对她的爱以及那么多人对她的爱，久久驻留。但我仍然沉湎在至深的悲痛之中，一种我不确定自己能否克服的伤痛，一种我不确定自己是否愿意克服的伤痛。我为她的逝去哀痛，为她的离去而哀嚎。无可否认，我也为自己而哭泣，那是自私的泪水，因为她不在我身边了。我为她不能做的事以及不能成就的事业而哭泣。我为那些我未能朗读给她听的书籍而哭泣，永远也不能为她朗读了。
于是每次去墓地，我都会带上那些我可能会为她朗读的书籍，然后读给她听。
我朗读给她听是因为我想让她爱上文学，也因为，过去，在我的生命中，书籍拯救了我，让我学会了面对那些令我手足无措的事情。或许至今它们仍能助我度过难关。然后，我意识到，我不是朗读给她听，而是给我自己听。