追忆祖父

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 …

我仍然能够听到他沉重而拖沓的脚步声，还有他的金属助行架在地板上发出的咣当咣当的声音。如果身边没有人时，他就会叫我。他念我名字中的“L”时发音是如此清晰，甚至可能过于清晰，这总会令我感到惊讶。

每当我闭上双眼，他的身影就浮现在我的眼前：一位开始脱发的老人，闻起来有些许腐朽的味道，看起来十分沧桑；他因年迈和悲伤佝偻了身躯，半隐于这个世界之外，静静地生活在我们当中。谁会知道这样一位沉默的老人会对我们的生活产生如此重大的影响呢？我的祖父扎迪不久之前失去了我的祖母，搬到了我们家住。我仍然能在脑海中看见他的身影，也几乎能回忆起他与我们共同生活的每一天中的点滴情景……

我回想起扎迪吃药的一次经历。他一天需要吃六次药，那个讨厌的定时器总会发出刺耳的声音提醒他该吃药了——每天六次，一次不落。除非我的父亲或母亲在家（可他们却常常不在家，要么在工作，要么在外跑腿，要么就正好不在厨房），否则我就得去把玻璃杯倒满水，再抽出一张餐巾纸，然后把每一颗药都摆放在他面前的桌子上。

“塞利娜？”这声呼唤也几乎会在每天下午都如期而至，伴随着祖父拖沓的脚步声和助行架的咣当声。

“等一下，扎迪，我正在给你倒水呢。”我会把玻璃杯倒满水放在他面前，然后走到他的助行架旁，取出那个塑料袋（里面装着他每天得以顺利服药所需的所有东西），关掉定时器，再拿出药盒和那张列有他一整天需要吃的所有药的清单。我会把每一颗药都摆在桌子上：如果心情好的话，我会把它们摆成某些图案；如果心情不好，我就快速地把它们放好。

“可以吃药了，扎迪。”有时他会轻轻地咕哝一声“谢谢你”，但有时也会忘记。不过，这没关系。

我回想起一系列美好的回忆。论最爱吃甜食的人，非我的祖父莫属。我们家的冰箱里从没断过冰激凌，饼干罐也从没空过。他去世后不久，有一次我梦到了他，梦中的我仿佛退回到了某段回忆之中。我像以前许多次所做的那样，把冰激凌递给了他，而他也像以前许多次所做的那样，把冰激凌接了过去。他总会把打发的奶油挤在冰淇淋上并撒上配料，如果他能得到这些东西的话……他吃冰淇淋的时候是他看起来为数不多的真正快乐的时刻之一。

他的另一个为数不多的快乐时刻便是他读诗的时候。他房间里的书架上摆放着几本大部头的书。他会走进房间（依旧是拖着脚走，助行架的篮子里搁着一本书），然后坐在桌边开始阅读。有时，他会让我们读给他听。有一次我给他读了艾伦·坡的《乌鸦》，对此我记忆犹新。不过，我觉得弗罗斯特才是他最喜爱的诗人，或许是因为他的诗作恬淡安静，一如我的祖父那样。我相信他在读诗时是真的快乐。

接下来……好吧，我们就说他摔了一跤。大家都这么认为。我觉得自己当时不在场，尽管我已经记得不太清楚了。不过他的确是跌倒了，虽然看起来并无大碍，但大家认为这次跌倒可能引发了某个问题，导致了出血。最后的那些回忆我记得尤为清楚。最后一次见到他的那天，我得了脓毒性咽喉炎，多数时间都在卧床休息。我猜扎迪一直都在叽里咕噜地胡言乱语，但我压根儿没有注意到，反而沉迷于妈妈给我播放的电影之中。最后，她叫了一辆救护车……我几乎没有注意到他们是什么时候把他抬上担架的，只记得自己希望他们能走开并别再出声了，这样我就能安安静静地看电影了。他们把他抬上了担架，然后就走了……那是我最后一次见到祖父，我甚至都没有跟他告别。

我不记得自己是什么时候发现祖父处于弥留之际的。这个打击对我而言太大了，因为他之前一直都挺健康的。他去世之后我痛哭不已，很长一段时间之后也仍然不能完全接受他已经离世的事实，并仍然期待着能听到他在地板上弄出的咣当声和他从一个房间溜达到另一个房间时两只鞋拖在地上发出的声音。我仍然能够看到、听到、感受到并重温那许许多多的点滴情景，如果我努力这样做的话。我的祖父扎迪是一位寡言少语的老人，他将继续给我留下许多遗憾，也将继续给我留下诸多美好的回忆……