在漫长的七月傍晚，
这位法国女人
每个夏天都来我姑妈的小旅馆
逗留两个星期
会划船送哥哥和我
到这个一英里宽的湖中间
因此我们三个
就会被肆意挥洒的各种红色包围
那红色把湖和天空都化成了火焰
那是我妈妈过世之后的夏天。
我记得船桨汲水的声音
这甜美的歌声似乎
把我们带入
她教会了我们爱的那些歌中
“蓝月亮。”“深紫”。
她边划我们边唱，从来没想知道
她来自何方或她为什么一个人，
感觉快乐，她总是愿意
把我们送进那片美中。
In the long July evenings,
the French woman
who came to stay every summer
for two weeks at my aunt’s inn
would row my brother and me
out to the middle of the mile-wide lake
so that the three of us
would be surrounded by the wild
extravagance of reds that had transformed
both lake and sky into fire.
It was the summer after our mother died.
I remember the dipping sound of the oars
and the sweet music of our voices as she led us
in the songs she had taught us to love.
“Blue Moon.” “Deep Purple.”
We sang as she rowed, not ever wondering
where she came from or why she was alone,
happy that she was willing to row us
out into all that beauty.
“The Guest” by Patricia Fargnoli, from Winter. © Hobblebush Books, 2013. Reprint
