I yelled at you today. I had gone to the kitchen to start dinner. And you called out，“Where are you， where are you？”
　　“I’m right in the kitchen，” I answered angrily. “Oh，” you replied with a sigh of relief.
　　I yelled at you today. This time I was in the bathroom.
　　“Where’d ya go？ Pat？ Pat？”
　　You called my name over and over.
　　“I’m in the bathroom，” I shouted at the top of my voice， knowing full well you couldn’t hear me， certain the neighbors could.
　　I yelled at you today. You poured apple juice on top of your pasta. God， what a mess.
　　I yelled at you today. You spit out your medicine. You’d never done that before.
　　I yelled at you today. You could see our car from the living room window and kept 1）hinting for a ride. When I tried to explain that we had already been out， you looked at me as if I were trying to trick you. I hate it when you think I’m lying to you. Even though I know you can’t help it， I hate it.
　　I yelled at you today. I had just finished dressing you for day care and left to answer the phone. When I got back， you had your nightgown back on and were wearing my oversized walking shoes. If that wasn’t enough， when we were finally ready， as I zipped up your coat， you announced， “I have to pee.”
　　At last， we were almost out the door. I put your favorite red hat on you. As I pulled it down over your ears， you smiled. “Thank you， Mama，” you said and then instantly realized your mistake. You covered your mouth with your hand， your eyes wide with surprise. “That’s what’s happening， isn’t it？” you asked.
　　“Yes，” I answered. “And it’s okay， it’s okay，” I repeated， trying to 2）reassure us both.
　　But if it’s okay， why can’t I simply take the time to tell you I’m leaving the room and I’ll be right back？ Why yell when you make a mess at mealtime？ I have to clean it up anyway. There are times when I can hardly get my own vitamins down； why do I always expect you to be able to swallow yours？

　　Tonight， as I tucked you in bed， we sang your favorite lullabies together. I think you enjoy this part of the day best. “Love you，” I said and kissed you good night.
　　“Love you， too. How is it we’re together？” you asked.
　　“Well， to begin with ， you’re my mother.”
　　“Oh，” you said， surprised. “Isn’t that lovely？”
　　“It depends on how you look at it，” I said， and you laughed. I thanked God you still had a sense of humor. “I’m sorry I yelled at you today，” I apologized. 　　“You did？” you asked. But tonight that confused look was missing； instinctively I could tell you did remember.
　　“So， you’re letting me 3）off the hook，” I said with relief. You reached up and moved the hair from my forehead.
　　“It’s okay， honey， it’s hard.” And then you took the corner of your top sheet and wiped the tears from my eyes.

　　I didn’t yell at you today. In fact， I haven’t yelled at you all week. I’m finally taking the doctors’ advice and the advice of family and friends. We won’t be living together anymore. The guilt and grief is so overwhelming. I can hardly think straight. I’m tired， Mom， so very tired. After our 4）ritual of nightly lullabies， I laid my head on your chest and sobbed like a baby. You cradled me in your arms and I knew you understood. Instantly， I began missing you more than I thought possible.
　　I visit you almost every day. Sometimes you remember my name， sometimes you don’t. But you’re always excited to see me. Today as I approached the dining room， your eyes were wandering， allowing me to sneak in and sit across the table from you. I waited for you to notice my presence. When you finally did， you smiled and asked， “Say， aren’t you important to me？”
　　I got up from my chair and walked over to you. “I sure hope so，” I said. After kissing you on top of your head， I added， “Because， God knows， you’re important to me.”
　　A year has passed； you’ve become weak and 5）bedridden. Time for you is only a matter of days. The waiting is difficult. My two sisters and I are with you day and night. Today your favorite 6）aides wait with us. I hold your hand and for the last time sing your favorite lullabies.“I’ll be all right，” I promise. “You can go now.”
　　Your eyes close. Within minutes your breathing stops. The head nurse listens for a heartbeat. There is none. One of the aides walks over to the window. “We must free her spirit，” she tells us， and， as is custom， opens it. Goodbye， Mom.
　　During our last few years together， I learned so much about you， so much about myself. Thank you， Mom， it was a pleasure. And an honor.

　　我今天吼你了。我明明在厨房准备晚餐。你却大声叫唤，“你在哪里，你在哪里？”
　　“我就在厨房里。”我生气地回答。“哦。”你轻声叹息，如释重负地答道。
　　我今天吼你了。这次我在浴室里。
　　“你在哪里？帕特？帕特？”
　　你一遍又一遍地呼喊我。 　　“我在浴室里。”深知你听力衰退，会听不清我的回答，我用尽全力高声喊道，邻居们一定听得很清楚。
　　我今天吼你了。你把苹果汁倒在了意大利面上。天，真是一团糟。
　　我今天吼你了。你把药吐了出来。你以前从不会这样做。
　　我今天吼你了。你从客厅的窗户可以看到我们停在外面的车，并一直暗示想要坐车去兜风。我努力向你解释我们已经出去过了，但你却用那种眼神看着我，好像我在哄骗你似的。我讨厌你觉得我在骗你。即便我知道你是身不由己，我还是讨厌。
　　我今天吼你了。我才刚给你穿好去日间护理院的衣服，转身接个电话，回来时就发现你又把睡衣穿上了，脚上还穿着我那双过大的休闲鞋。更糟的是，当我们终于准备妥当，我正帮你拉上外套的拉链时，你宣布：“我想尿尿。”
　　终于，我们快要出门了。我帮你戴上你最爱的那顶红色帽子。当我帮你把帽子拉到耳边时，你笑着对我说：“谢谢你，妈妈。”然后你立即意识到了你的错误。你用手掩住嘴巴，惊讶地睁大双眼。“我变成这样了，是吗？”你问道。
　　“是的。”我回答。“但没关系，没关系的。”我重复道，努力安抚我们两人的情绪。
　　但若真的没关系，为什么我不能花点功夫跟你说我要离开房间一下，马上回来就好？为什么每当你吃饭弄得到处一团糟时我会对你大吼大叫？反正我总是要清理干净的。又是为什么，就连有时我都觉得难以下咽的维生素片，我却总是希望你能好好吞下呢？
　　今晚，我哄你睡觉时，我们一起唱了你最喜欢的摇篮曲。我想这是一天当中你最喜欢的时光。“爱你。”我说道，并亲吻你，向你道晚安。
　　“我也爱你。但是我们是怎么走到一起的？”你问道。
　　“嗯，首先，你是我妈妈。”
　　“噢。”你惊讶地说道。“这真让人感到开心，不是吗？”
　　“这就取决于你怎么看待这件事了。”我说。然后你大笑起来。感谢上帝，你还保有幽默感。“对不起，我今天吼了你。”我向你道歉。
　　“你有吗？”你问道。但你今晚并没有露出那种困惑的神情，直觉告诉我其实你记得。
　　“所以，你不怪我。”我说道，松了一口气。你把手伸过来，捋开我前额的头发。
　　“没关系，亲爱的，这很不容易。”然后你拿着被子的一角帮我擦干眼泪。
　　我今天没有吼你。事实上，我这一周都没有吼过你。我最后还是听从了医生和亲朋好友的建议。我们今后不会再住在一起。愧疚与痛苦如潮水般将我淹没，我几乎无法思考。我感到很累，妈妈，很累。在我们照例唱完摇篮曲后，我把头搁在你的胸膛上，哭得像个孩子。你抱着我轻轻摇晃，我知道你不会怪我。与此同时，我开始深深地想念你，我没想到思念竟会如此强烈。
　　我几乎每天都去探望你。有时候你记得我的名字，有时候不记得。但见到我，你总是表现得很兴奋。今天当我走近餐厅时，你的眼神游离，我悄悄地溜了进去，隔着桌子坐在你对面，等待你注意到我的存在。你终于注意到了，笑着问我，“你对我很重要，是吗？”
　　我从椅子上站了起来，向你走过去。“我当然希望如此。”我说。在你的头顶亲了一下，我补充道，“因为，天知道，你对我有多么重要。”
　　一年过去了。你变得很虚弱，卧床不起。你已时日无多。等待是个煎熬的过程。我和两个姐妹日夜守候在你身边。今天你最喜欢的护士和我们一起守候。我握着你的手，最后一次唱起了你最喜欢的摇篮曲。“我会好好的。”我发誓。“你可以安心地走了。”
　　你合上双眼。几分钟后，你停止了呼吸。护士长上前听听你是否还有心跳。没有。其中一名护士走到窗边。“我们要放飞她的灵魂。”她对我们说，然后便依例打开了窗户。再见，妈妈。
　　在我们一起生活的最后几年里，我愈加了解你，也对自己有了更深的了解。谢谢你，妈妈，和你生活是一件愉悦的事，也是我的荣幸。