童年的我們被呵護著，一雙溫柔白皙的手，帶來無私的母愛。恍然間，那雙手已經不再溫柔了，甚至有些粗糙，但那雙手依然給我們帶來溫暖。世界上有種最無私的愛，那就是母愛，無論滄海桑田，還是天涯海角，母愛永遠難以割斷。記憶深處的那一雙手，總是母親的手。

    Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.

    I don't remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore —your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.

    Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.

    Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe the boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...

    Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow. 

    In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, "Don't do that anymore — your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten — and forgiven — long ago. 

    That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found. 

    夜復一夜，她總是來幫我把被子掖好，即使我早已不是小孩子了。掖好被子后，她會彎下身來，撥開我的長發(fā)，在我的額頭上吻一下。這是母親長久以來的習慣。

    不記得從何時起，我開始討厭她用手撥開我的頭發(fā)。但我的確討厭她長期操勞、粗糙的手觸摸我細嫩的皮膚。終于，一天晚上，我沖她嚷道：“別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了！”母親什么也沒說。但從此之后，她再也沒有在一天結束的時候用那種熟悉的方式表達她的愛。

    時光流逝，許多年之后，我的思緒又回到了那個晚上。那時我想念母親的手，想念她晚上留在我額頭上的親吻。有時這幕情景似乎很近，有時又似乎很遙遠�？伤�總是潛伏著，時常浮現，出現在我意識中。

    一年年過去，我也不再是一個小女孩，母親也有70多歲了。那雙我認為很粗糙的手依然為我和我的家庭操勞著。她是我家的醫(yī)生，去藥櫥給我胃疼的女兒找胃藥或為我兒子擦傷的膝蓋敷藥。她能做出世界上最美味的炸雞…能洗掉牛仔褲上那些我永遠都弄不干凈的污點……

    現在，我的孩子都已經長大，離開了家，爸爸也去世了。在一些特別的日子里，我經常情不自禁地走到隔壁母親的房間和她一起度過。于是，一次感恩節(jié)前夕的深夜，我睡在年輕時的臥室里，一只熟悉的手有些猶豫地掠過我的臉，撥開我額頭的頭發(fā)，隨后是一個吻，輕輕地印在我的眉毛上。

    在我的記憶中，無數次回想起年輕時那晚我抱怨的聲音：“別再這樣了——你的手太粗糙了！”抓住母親的手，我脫口而出地表示我多么后悔那晚所說的話。我以為她會像我一樣記得這件事情。但媽媽不知道我在說些什么，她已經在很久以前就忘了這事，并早就原諒了我。

    那晚，我?guī)е鴮�溫柔的母親和她體貼的雙手的全新認識進入了夢鄉(xiāng)。而我許久以來的負罪感也消失地無影無蹤。