Night after night， she came to tuck① me in， even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding② 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 annoying③ 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 out④ 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 lurked⑤， 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 cabinet⑥for the remedy⑦ to calm a young girl’s stomach or soothe⑧ the boy’s scraped⑨ knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains⑩ out of blue jeans like I never could...
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.
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.
① tuckv. 塞进去，（将棉被）盖好
② longstandingadj. 长时间的，为时甚久的
③ annoyv. 使……苦恼，打扰
④ close out结束
⑤ lurkv. 潜藏，埋伏
⑥ cabinetn. 橱柜，壁柜
⑦ remedyn. 药物
⑧ soothev. 缓和，安慰
⑨ scrapev. 擦伤，刮碰
⑩ stainn. 污点
母亲的手
夜复一夜，她总是来帮我把被子掖好，即使我已经不是小孩子。掖好被子后，她会习惯性地弯下身来，拨开我的长发，在我的额头上吻一下。
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。