My daughter is an ambulance-driving paramedic. One city over from mine, that's all, but for us she's a voice on the phone, a face on the screen, until somebody can promise that sharing a kitchen table won't inadvertently set off a new chain of transmission. Our deepest human impulse for the giving and receiving of comfort, especially in crisis -- to move closer, to join hands, to feel the literal nearness of others -- is the one we cannot indulge.
我女兒是開(kāi)救護(hù)車(chē)的護(hù)理人員。我們相隔一座城市，如此而已，但對(duì)我們來(lái)說(shuō)，她變成手機(jī)上的一個(gè)聲音、屏幕上的一張臉，直到有人能保證一起上餐桌不會(huì)無(wú)意間引發(fā)一連串新的病毒傳播為止。我們對(duì)于給予和獲得安慰的深層渴望，特別是面臨危機(jī)時(shí)--靠近彼此、手牽著手、感受彼此確實(shí)就在身旁--是此刻我們不能享有的。
I listen every morning for the boys across the street. Their mother is Australian, and the school-gone-online routine starts with driveway cricket, one parent pitching, the other jiggling the baby sister. They shout and whoop, the ball smacks off the cricket bat, and somehow it's like the sound of those Italians singing in unison off their balconies, and the people in great cities opening their windows for evening salutes to frontline workers, and the balloon-covered Happy Birthday Kevin! car that honked and blasted music through my neighborhood this week. Halfway out the sunroof and waving like the star of a parade float, his legs pinioned by adults within, Kevin -- I'm going to go ahead and assume that was Kevin -- had block after block of Oakland residents wishing him a happy birthday and merrily waving back.
每天早上我都仔細(xì)聆聽(tīng)對(duì)街男孩的聲音。他們的媽媽是澳洲人，在學(xué)校改成在線(xiàn)課程后，日常活動(dòng)就從在車(chē)道上打板球開(kāi)始，父母其中一個(gè)負(fù)責(zé)投球，另一個(gè)則輕輕搖著小女?huà)搿Ｋ麄兇舐暫敖信c歡呼、板球啪地撞擊板球棒，不知為何這就像是那群意大利人在陽(yáng)臺(tái)上齊聲歌唱的聲音；也像大城市的居民在傍晚打開(kāi)窗戶(hù)向前線(xiàn)工作人員致敬；或像那輛掛滿(mǎn)氣球的“祝凱文生日快樂(lè)！”慶生專(zhuān)車(chē)，這周經(jīng)過(guò)我家小區(qū)時(shí)狂按喇叭與大聲播放音樂(lè)的聲音。凱文--我就當(dāng)他是凱文--的雙腿被車(chē)子里的大人抓住，從天窗露出半個(gè)身體，像是游行花車(chē)上的明星揮著手，在經(jīng)過(guò)一個(gè)又一個(gè)街區(qū)時(shí)，奧克蘭的居民祝他生日快樂(lè)，并且也開(kāi)心地向他揮手。
"Let us not let this virus infect our souls," I heard a local pastor implore his congregation last month. He was getting the hang of preaching by Zoom, the amens floating up the chat window on one side of the screen. A soprano sang a hymn at her living room piano, and it was possible for a while to imagine all this improvisation as terrified humans fumbling for grace and, at odd moments -- driveway cricket, a mask-sewing brigade, a How are you? that means something new -- finding it.
“別讓這個(gè)病毒感染我們的靈魂。”我上個(gè)月聽(tīng)到一位地方牧師向信眾做出這番呼吁。他正在學(xué)習(xí)通過(guò)Zoom講道，一句句阿門(mén)從屏幕側(cè)邊的聊天窗口中浮出來(lái)。一位女高音伴著她家客廳里的鋼琴唱贊美詩(shī)，而當(dāng)惶恐的人們摸索著尋找恩典的方式時(shí)，可能會(huì)有好一段時(shí)間都需要想出這些應(yīng)變做法，并且在出乎意料的時(shí)刻--車(chē)道上的板球比賽、致力縫口罩的軍隊(duì)、一句被賦予新義的“你好嗎？”--找到恩典。
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