追憶祖父

Miss_Bliss

I can still hear his feet shuffling1） loudly， his walker2） rattling3） along the floor. He would call me， if no one was around， and it always surprised me how clearly he pronounced， maybe even over-pronounced， the "L" in my name.

When I close my eyes， he materializes4） in front of me： an old man， balding5）， smelling slightly decayed and looking moth-eaten6）， stooped7） with age and sadness， half-closed to the world and quietly living amongst us. Who could know that such a quiet man would have such a big impact on our lives？ My grandfather， my Zadie， was recently widowed8） and living in our home. In my mind's eye9） I can still see him， still almost relive10） each and every day he spent in our lives ...

Flash to pill time， one of six during the day， always marked by that hateful timer that would announce， screechingly11） and without fail—six times every single day—that it was time for Zadie to take his pills. Unless one of my parents was there （and they were often outside， or at work， or running errands12）， or just not in the kitchen）， it would be me who had to fill the glass of water and pull out a napkin and arrange each and every pill on the table in front of him.

"Celina？" The call， too， came almost without fail in the afternoons， accompanied by the shuffling and the rattling.

"One minute， Zadie， I'm getting your water." I would fill the glass and set it down in front of him. I would walk over to his walker， pull out the plastic bag containing everything he needed in order to successfully take his medication each day， turn off the timer and pull out the pill box as well as the sheet containing a list of all of the pills he needed throughout the day. I would lay each one down， forming patterns with them if I was in a good mood， or set them out quickly if I was not.

"Here you go， Zadie." The "thank you"， quiet and mumbled13）， would come sometimes， be forgotten others. But it didn't matter.

Flash to a string of good memories. If anyone had a sweet tooth14）， it was my grandfather. Our freezer was never devoid of15） ice cream， and our cookie jar never empty. I had a dream about him once， just after he had gone， and it was like I had stepped back into a memory； as I had many times before， I offered him ice cream， and， as he had many times before， he accepted. Always with whipped cream16） and with toppings17） if he could get them ... One of the few times he looked truly happy was when he was eating ice cream.

The other was when he read poetry； he had a few large books in his room， on his shelf. He would enter the room （shuffle， shuffle）， a book resting in his walker basket， and would sit at the table and read. Sometimes he'd have us read it to him； I remember particularly well the time I read him Allan Poe's18） The Raven. But I think Frost19） was his favorite， maybe because his poetry was quiet， like my grandfather. I believe he was truly happy when he read poetry.

And then ... Well， let's just say he fell. That's what they think happened. I don't think I was there for it， though I don't remember particularly well. But he fell down， and seemed fine， but they think it may have started something and triggered the bleeding. These last memories I remember particularly well. The last day I saw him， I had strep throat20）， and spent most of my day lying around. I guess Zadie had been mumbling nonsense， but I barely noticed； instead， I absorbed myself in the movie Mum had played for me. Finally， she called an ambulance ... I barely noticed when they loaded him onto the stretcher21）， only remember wishing that they would go away and be quiet so I could watch my movie in peace. They loaded him up， and then they were gone ... That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive， and I didn't even say goodbye.

I don't remember when I found out that he was dying. The shock was great for me， as he had been reasonably healthy. I cried hard after he had gone， still didn't fully absorb his passing for a long time after， and still expected to hear the rattling on the floorboards and the shuffling of his shoes as he wandered from room to room. There is so much I can still see when I try， so much I can still hear and feel and relive. My grandfather， my Zadie， was a quiet old man who would go on to leave me a good few regrets and a good few happy memories …

我仍然能夠聽到他沉重而拖沓的腳步聲，還有他的金屬助行架在地板上發(fā)出的咣當咣當?shù)穆曇簟Ｈ绻磉厸]有人時，他就會叫我。他念我名字中的“L”時發(fā)音是如此清晰，甚至可能過于清晰，這總會令我感到驚訝。

每當我閉上雙眼，他的身影就浮現(xiàn)在我的眼前：一位開始脫發(fā)的老人，聞起來有些許腐朽的味道，看起來十分滄桑；他因年邁和悲傷佝僂了身軀，半隱于這個世界之外，靜靜地生活在我們當中。誰會知道這樣一位沉默的老人會對我們的生活產(chǎn)生如此重大的影響呢？我的祖父扎迪不久之前失去了我的祖母，搬到了我們家住。我仍然能在腦海中看見他的身影，也幾乎能回憶起他與我們共同生活的每一天中的點滴情景……

我回想起扎迪吃藥的一次經(jīng)歷。他一天需要吃六次藥，那個討厭的定時器總會發(fā)出刺耳的聲音提醒他該吃藥了——每天六次，一次不落。除非我的父親或母親在家（可他們卻常常不在家，要么在工作，要么在外跑腿，要么就正好不在廚房），否則我就得去把玻璃杯倒?jié)M水，再抽出一張餐巾紙，然后把每一顆藥都擺放在他面前的桌子上。

“塞利娜？”這聲呼喚也幾乎會在每天下午都如期而至，伴隨著祖父拖沓的腳步聲和助行架的咣當聲。

“等一下，扎迪，我正在給你倒水呢。”我會把玻璃杯倒?jié)M水放在他面前，然后走到他的助行架旁，取出那個塑料袋（里面裝著他每天得以順利服藥所需的所有東西），關(guān)掉定時器，再拿出藥盒和那張列有他一整天需要吃的所有藥的清單。我會把每一顆藥都擺在桌子上：如果心情好的話，我會把它們擺成某些圖案；如果心情不好，我就快速地把它們放好。

“可以吃藥了，扎迪。”有時他會輕輕地咕噥一聲“謝謝你”，但有時也會忘記。不過，這沒關(guān)系。

我回想起一系列美好的回憶。論最愛吃甜食的人，非我的祖父莫屬。我們家的冰箱里從沒斷過冰激凌，餅干罐也從沒空過。他去世后不久，有一次我夢到了他，夢中的我仿佛退回到了某段回憶之中。我像以前許多次所做的那樣，把冰激凌遞給了他，而他也像以前許多次所做的那樣，把冰激凌接了過去。他總會把打發(fā)的奶油擠在冰淇淋上并撒上配料，如果他能得到這些東西的話……他吃冰淇淋的時候是他看起來為數(shù)不多的真正快樂的時刻之一。

他的另一個為數(shù)不多的快樂時刻便是他讀詩的時候。他房間里的書架上擺放著幾本大部頭的書。他會走進房間（依舊是拖著腳走，助行架的籃子里擱著一本書），然后坐在桌邊開始閱讀。有時，他會讓我們讀給他聽。有一次我給他讀了艾倫·坡的《烏鴉》，對此我記憶猶新。不過，我覺得弗羅斯特才是他最喜愛的詩人，或許是因為他的詩作恬淡安靜，一如我的祖父那樣。我相信他在讀詩時是真的快樂。

接下來……好吧，我們就說他摔了一跤。大家都這么認為。我覺得自己當時不在場，盡管我已經(jīng)記得不太清楚了。不過他的確是跌倒了，雖然看起來并無大礙，但大家認為這次跌倒可能引發(fā)了某個問題，導致了出血。最后的那些回憶我記得尤為清楚。最后一次見到他的那天，我得了膿毒性咽喉炎，多數(shù)時間都在臥床休息。我猜扎迪一直都在嘰里咕嚕地胡言亂語，但我壓根兒沒有注意到，反而沉迷于媽媽給我播放的電影之中。最后，她叫了一輛救護車……我?guī)缀鯖]有注意到他們是什么時候把他抬上擔架的，只記得自己希望他們能走開并別再出聲了，這樣我就能安安靜靜地看電影了。他們把他抬上了擔架，然后就走了……那是我最后一次見到祖父，我甚至都沒有跟他告別。

我不記得自己是什么時候發(fā)現(xiàn)祖父處于彌留之際的。這個打擊對我而言太大了，因為他之前一直都挺健康的。他去世之后我痛哭不已，很長一段時間之后也仍然不能完全接受他已經(jīng)離世的事實，并仍然期待著能聽到他在地板上弄出的咣當聲和他從一個房間溜達到另一個房間時兩只鞋拖在地上發(fā)出的聲音。我仍然能夠看到、聽到、感受到并重溫那許許多多的點滴情景，如果我努力這樣做的話。我的祖父扎迪是一位寡言少語的老人，他將繼續(xù)給我留下許多遺憾，也將繼續(xù)給我留下諸多美好的回憶……