I sit at my kitchen table, while my daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother. On the wall hangs a photo of my father. “When is Rick going to be here?” My mother asks, referring to my husband. “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.” I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question. While my mother and daughter play, I busy myself making a salad. “Don't put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onion.” “Yes, Mom,” I answer. I scrub(洗擦) off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces. “Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me. “You know how Daddy hates onion.” This time I can’t answer. My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has been, just a bit forgetful. I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it to take away the bitterness. Cut and rub. This is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid. So why am I afraid now? I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink. Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears off her face. I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same kiss to Anna. Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle. Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits. Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same question too many times? I walk over and sit down between my mother and he  r granddaughter. “Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers. “He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 小题1:What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?
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