Night after night, my mother came to my bed, even long after my childhood years. She would bend down and push my long hair out of the way, and then kiss my forehead.
I don't remember when it first started annoying me—her hands pushing my hair that way, 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 made no reply and left quietly. But never again did my mother do it with that familiar expression of her love.
With the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night time after time. By then I missed my mother's hands and her goodnight kiss. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away, but always it was existed in the back of my mind.
The years have passed, and I'm not a little girl any more. Mom is in her seventies, and those hands I once complained to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family.
Now, Mom no longer has Dad and lives alone. One night on Thanksgiving Eve, I found myself drawn to her house to spend the night with her. As I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly ran across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my forehead. I burst into tears.
In my memory, thousands of times, I recalled the night my young voice complained. Catching Mom's hand in hand, I told her 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 already 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.
记得初中的时候班主任曾经放过一段视频，至今记忆犹新。
记得初中的时候班主任曾经放过一段视频，至今记忆犹新。
