阅读理解
I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to
see above the top of it as mother sat doing letters. Standing by her chair, looking
at the ink bottle, pens and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must
be the most wonderful thing in the world.
Years later, during her final illness, mother kept different
things for my sister and brother. "But the desk," she said again, "is
for Elizabeth."
I never saw her angry, never saw her cry. I knew she loved
me; she showed it in action. But as a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks
between mother and daughter.
They never happened. And a gulf opened between us. I was" too emotional". But
she lived "on the surface".
As years passed and I had my own family. I loved my mother
and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked
her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me.
I posted the letter and waited for her answer, none came.
My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally
peace. It seemed that nothing happened. I couldn't be sure that the letter had
even got to Mother. I only knew that I had written it, and I could stop trying
to make her into someone she was not.
Now the presence of her desk told me, as she'd never been
able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the
desk carefully and found some papers inside—a photo of my father and a one-page
letter, folded and refolded many times.
Give me an answer, my letter asks, in any way you choose. Mother,
you always choose the act that speaks louder than words.
