空当
By Rhonda Lucas
My parents’ divorce was final. The house had been sold and the day had come to move. Thirty years of the family’s life was now crammed into the garage. The two-by-fours that ran the length of the walls were the only uniformity among the clutter of boxes, furniture, and memories. All was frozen in limbo between the life just passed and the one to come.
父母离婚已成定局。房子卖了，搬家的日子到了。三十年共同的家，此刻被统统塞进了车库，箱子、家具，连同记忆，乱成一团，唯一齐整就是那些沿墙码放的2˟4英寸规格的木材了。家已成过往，新的生活还没开始，就在这段空当中，一切似乎都凝滞了。
The sunlight pushing its way through the window splattered against a barricade of boxes. Like a fluorescent river, it streamed down the sides and flooded the cracks of the cold, cement floor. I stood in the doorway between the house and garage and wondered if the sunlight would ever again penetrate the memories packed inside those boxes. For an instant, the cardboard boxes appeared as tombstones, monuments to those memories.
阳光奋力穿过小窗，被凌乱的箱子挡住了去路，只好泼洒开去。如一条闪着荧光的小河，阳光沿着箱体流淌下来，将冰冷的水泥地面的上的裂缝淹没。伫立在房子和车库间的门道上，我想：阳光还能穿透那些封存在箱子里的记忆吗？刹那间，那些纸板箱恍若墓碑，森然兀立，上面刻满了过往的记忆。
The furnace in the corner, with its huge tubular fingers reaching out and disappearing into the wall, was unaware of the futility of trying to warm the empty house. The rhythmical whir of its effort hummed the elegy for the memories boxed in front of me. I closed the door, sat down on the step, and listened reverently. The feeling of loss transformed the bad memories into not-so-bad, the not-so-bad memories into good, and committed the good ones to my mind. Still, I felt as vacant as the house inside.
角落里，暖风炉粗大的管子如手指般向外伸展，直至没入墙体。它还不知道，虽然它依然在努力温暖这所空房子，对我们来说，已是毫无意义了。此刻，它那有节奏的嗡鸣声听着就像在为我面前箱子里封存的记忆哼着挽歌。我关上门，坐在台阶上，肃穆的聆听着这挽歌。内心的失落让往日糟糕的回忆变得不那么糟糕，继而又变得美好起来，最后，我把这些美好的回忆一一收藏在心里。然而，我依然感觉内心空落落的，一如这空荡荡的房子。
A workbench to my right stood disgustingly empty. Not so much as a nail had been left behind. I noticed, for the first time, what a dull, lifeless green it was. Lacking the disarray of tools that used to cover it, now it seemed as out of place as a bathtub in the kitchen. In fact, as I scanned the room, the only things that did seem to belong were the cobwebs in the corners.
右边的工作台空荡得令人厌恶，连一颗钉子都没留下。在我眼里，它的绿色第一次显得这么晦暗，这么了无生气。没有了以往工具满台的一片狼藉，如今它反倒显得像厨房里的浴盆一样格格不入。其实，环视车库，唯一看起来物得其所的就只有墙角的几挂蛛网了。
A group of boxes had been set aside from the others and stacked in front of the workbench. Scrawled like graffiti on the walls of dilapidated buildings were the words “Salvation Army.” Those words caught my eyes as effectively as a flashing neon sign. They reeked of irony. “Salvation—was a bit too late for this family,” I mumbled sarcastically to myself.
几只纸箱被单独放在一边，就堆在工作台前。纸箱上歪歪扭扭写着几个字——“救世军”，看着就像废弃建筑上的涂鸦。这几个字就如霓虹一闪，立刻吸引了我的目光。他们真是讽刺啊！“救——对这个家已经太迟了，” 我自嘲地喃喃自语。
The houseful of furniture that had once been so carefully chosen to complement and blend with the color schemes of the various rooms was indiscriminately crammed together against a single wall. The uncoordinated colors combined in turmoil and lashed out in the greyness of the room.
满屋的家具胡乱堆在一面墙前，曾经我们是那么用心地根据每个房间的色调选购、搭配它们。凌乱的色彩似在躁动不安，在这灰暗的房间里显得越发刺眼。
I suddenly became aware of the coldness of the garage, but I didn’t want to go back inside the house, so I made my way through the boxes to the couch. I cleared a space to lie down and curled up, covering myself with my jacket. I hoped my father would return soon with the truck so we could empty the garage and leave the cryptic silence of parting lives behind.
突然，我感觉到车库里阵阵寒意袭来，但我不想回到房子里去。我挪开箱子走到沙发前，腾出一块地方，躺下，蜷缩起来，把夹克盖在身上。现在，我只盼着父亲快点开着卡车回来，我们好清空车库，只把家散人离的莫名沉默留在这里。
（选自Patterns: A Short Prose Reader, by Mary Lou Conlin, published by Houghton Mifflin, 1983.）
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