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Night after night， she came to tuck me in， even long after my childhood years。 Following her longstanding custom， she"d lean down and push my long hair out of the way， then kiss my forehead。

I don"t remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way。 But it did annoy me， 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 didn"t say anything in reply。 But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love。

Time after time， with the passing years， my thoughts returned to that night。 By then I missed my mother"s hands， missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead。 Sometimes the incident seemed very close， sometimes far away。 But always it lurked， in the back of my mind。

Well， the years have passed， and I"m not a little girl anymore。 Mom is in her mid-seventies， and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family。 She"s been our doctor， reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl"s stomach or soothe the boy"s scraped knee。 She cooks the best fried chicken in the world。。。 gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could。。。

直摸槽扩悬角埔书啊夜距且财森几陆名宝伯曾课现足南观测岁艺寒请反尖名须距录章越也组再毒差订客最殖母雪碳

Now， my own children are grown and gone。 Mom no longer has Dad， and on special occasions， I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her。 So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve， as I slept in the bedroom of my youth， a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead。 Then a kiss， ever so gently， touched my brow。

In my memory， for the thousandth time， I recalled the night my young voice complained， "Don"t do that anymore — your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom"s hand in hand， I blurted out 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 forgotten — and forgiven — long ago。

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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。 精美译文：

夜复一夜，她总是来帮我把被子掖好，即使我早已不是小孩子了。掖好被子后，她会弯下身来，拨开我的长发，在我的额头上吻一下。这是母亲长久以来的习惯。

不记得从何时起，我开始讨厌她用手拨开我的头发。但我的确讨厌她长期操劳、粗糙的手触摸我细嫩的皮肤。终于，一天晚上，我冲她嚷道：“别再这样了——你的手太粗糙了！”母亲什么也没说。但从此之后，她再也没有在一天结束的时候用那种熟悉的方式表达她的爱。

时光流逝，许多年之后，我的思绪又回到了那个晚上。那时我想念母亲的手，想念她晚上留在我额头上的亲吻。有时这幕情景似乎很近，有时又似乎很遥远。可它总是潜伏着，时常浮现，出现在我意识中。

一年年过去，我也不再是一个小女孩，母亲也有70多岁了。那双我认为很粗糙的手依然为我和我的家庭操劳着。她是我家的医生，去药橱给我胃疼的女儿找胃药或为我儿子擦伤的膝盖敷药。她能做出世界上最美味的炸鸡…能洗掉牛仔裤上那些我永远都弄不干净的污点……

现在，我的孩子都已经长大，离开了家，爸爸也去世了。在一些特别的日子里，我经常情不自禁地走到隔壁母亲的房间和她一起度过。于是，一次感恩节前夕的深夜，我睡在年轻时的卧室里，一只熟悉的手有些犹豫地掠过我的脸，拨开我额头的头发，随后是一个吻，轻轻地印在我的眉毛上。

在我的记忆中，无数次回想起年轻时那晚我抱怨的声音：“别再这样了——你的手太粗糙了！”抓住母亲的手，我脱口而出地表示我多么后悔那晚所说的话。我以为她会像我一样记得这件事情。但妈妈不知道我在说些什么，她已经在很久以前就忘了这事，并早就原谅了我。

那晚，我带着对温柔的母亲和她体贴的双手的全新认识进入了梦乡。而我许久以来的负罪感也消失地无影无踪。