Morrie died on a Saturday morning.
His immediate1 family was with him in the house. Rob made it in from Tokyo-he got to kiss his father good-bye-and Jon was there, and of course Charlotte was there and Charlotte's cousin Marsha, who had written the poem that so moved Morrie at his "unofficial" memorial service, the poem that likened him to a "tender sequoia2." They slept in shifts around his bed. Morrie had fallen into a coma3 two days after our final visit, and the doctor said he could go at any moment. Instead, he hung on, through a tough afternoon, through a dark night.
Finally, on the fourth of November, when those he loved had left the room just for a moment-to grab coffee in the kitchen, the first time none of them were with him since the coma began-Morrie stopped breathing.
And he was gone.
I believe he died this way on purpose. I believe he wanted no chilling moments, no one to witness his last breath and be haunted by it, the way he had been haunted by his mother's death-notice telegram or by his father's corpse4 in the city morgue.
I believe he knew that he was in his own bed, that his books and his notes and his small hibiscus plant were nearby. He wanted to go serenely5, and that is how he went.
The funeral was held on a damp, windy morning. The grass was wet and the sky was the color of milk. We stood by the hole in the earth, close enough to hear the pond water lapping against the edge and to see ducks shaking off their feathers.
Although hundreds of people had wanted to attend, Charlotte kept this gathering6 small, just a few close friends and relatives. Rabbi Axelrod read a few poems. Morrie's brother, David-who still walked with a limp from his childhood polio lifted the shovel7 and tossed dirt in the grave, as per tradition.
At one point, when Morrie's ashes were placed into the ground, I glanced around the cemetery8. Morrie was right. It was indeed a lovely spot, trees and grass and a sloping hill.
"You talk, I'll listen, " he had said.
I tried doing that in my head and, to my happiness, found that the imagined conversation felt almost natural. I looked down at my hands, saw my watch and realized why.
It was Tuesday.
"My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing) . . . "
--POEM BY E. E. CUMMINGS, READ BY MORRIE 'S SON, ROB, AT THE MEMORIAL SERVICE
莫里死于星期六的早上。
他的家人都在他的身边。罗布从东京赶了回来--他要和父亲吻别--乔恩也在那儿,当然还有夏洛特以及她的表妹马莎,她在那次非正式的葬礼上写的那首诗曾深深地感动了莫里,那首诗把莫里比作一棵"温柔的红杉"。他们轮流睡在他的床边。我最后一次见到他以后,莫里昏迷了两天,医生说他随时都会走的。但他仍拖了一个难捱的下午和一个黑暗的夜晚。
最后,在十一月四日,当他的亲人刚离开房间一会儿--去厨房拿咖啡,这也是他昏迷后第一次没有人在他身边--莫里停止了呼吸。
他走了。
我相信他是有意这么做的。他不想有凄惨的时刻,不想让人看见他断气的情形从而抹不去这可怕的记忆,就像他无法抹去那份宣告母亲死亡的电报和陈尸所里父亲的尸体留给他的可怕记忆一样。
我相信他知道他是在自己的床上;他的书,他的笔记,他的小木槿都在他的身边,他想安宁地离去,他确实走得很安宁。
葬礼在一个潮湿、刮风的早上举行。草地湿润,天空是乳白色的。我们伫立在土坑的周围,听见了河水的拍打声,还看见鸭子在抖动羽毛。
虽然有很多人想来参加葬礼,但夏洛特还是没有铺张,来参加葬礼的只有几个亲朋好友。阿克塞尔拉德拉比诵读了几首诗。根据习俗,莫里的弟弟大卫--小儿麻痹症使他落下了跛脚的后遗症--挥铲将泥土洒向墓穴。
当莫里的骨灰下葬时,我抬头环视了一下墓地。莫里说得对。那儿确实是个好地方,树木,青草,斜坡。
"你说,我听,"他这么说过。
我暗暗试了试,令我高兴的是,我发现那想象中的对话是如此的自然。我低头看了看手表,明白了为什么。
今天是星期二。
"父亲走过我们面前,
唱着树上长出的新叶
(孩子们相信那到来的春天
也会和着父亲起舞翩翩)……"
--E•E•卡明斯的一首诗,
在葬礼上由莫里的儿子罗布诵读
1 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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2 sequoia | |
n.红杉 | |
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3 coma | |
n.昏迷,昏迷状态 | |
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4 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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5 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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6 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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7 shovel | |
n.铁锨,铲子,一铲之量;v.铲,铲出 | |
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8 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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