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Từ: Lòng Khăn Mới Thêu
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Edwidge Danticat
BREATH, EYES, MEMORY
I come from a place where breath, eyes, and memory are one, a place from which you carry your past like the hair on your head. Where women return to their children as butterflies or as tears in the eyes of the statues that their daughters pray to. My mother was as brave as stars at dawn. She too was from this place. My mother was like that woman who could never bleed and then could never stop bleeding, the one who gave in to her pain, to live as a butterfly. Yes, my mother was like me.
From the thick of the cane fields, I tried my best to tell her, but the words would not roll off my tongue. My grandmother walked over and put her hand on my shoulder.
"Listen. Listen before it passes. Parol gin pie zel. The words can give wins to your feet. There is so much to say, but time has failed you," she said. "There is a place where women are buried in clothes the color of flames, where we drop coffee on the ground for those who went ahead, where the daughter is never fully a woman until her mother has passed on before her. There is always a place where, if you listen closely in the night, you will hear your mother telling a story and at the end of the tale, she will ask you this question: "Ou libere?" Are you free, my daughter?"
My grandmother quickly pressed her fingers over my lips.
"Now," she said, "you will know how t answer."
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"...Khổ đau là ánh mặt trời
giúp nên giọt lệ thành hơi trở về ..." (ptt)
Hoàng Ân |
Được sửa chữa bởi - Hoang-An on 23:24:50 Jul 13 2010 |
 Gửi lúc 19:50:41 Jul 13 2010  |
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