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I've
loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it
as Mother sat writing 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, "it's for Elizabeth."
I never saw her anger, 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 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 present of her desk told, 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(折叠)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.
