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Anonymous

TothisdayIremembermymumsletters。ItallstartedinDecember1941。EverynightshesatatthebigtableinthekitchenandwrotetomybrotherJohnny，whohadbeendraftedthatsummer。WehadnotheardfromhimsincetheJaaneseattackedPearlHarbor。

IdidntunderstandwhymymumketwritingJohnnywhenheneverwroteback。

“Waitandsee-wellgetaletterfromhimoneday，”sheclaimed。MumsaidthattherewasadirectlinkfromthebraintothewrittenwordthatwasjustasstrongasthelightGodhasgrantedus。ShetrustedthatthislightwouldfindJohnny。

Idontknowifshesaidthattocalmherself，dadorallofusdown。ButIdoknowthatitheledussticktogether，andonedayaletterreallydidarrive。JohnnywasaliveonanislandinthePacific。

Ihadalwaysbeenamusedbythefactthatmumsignedherletters，“CeciliaCauzzi”，andIteasedheraboutthat。“Whydontyoujustwrite‘Mum？”Isaid。

IhadntbeenawarethatshealwaysthoughtofherselfasCeciliaCauzzi。NotasMum。Ibeganseeingherinanewlight，thissmalldelicatewoman，whoeveninhigh-heeledshoeswasbarelyoneandahalfmeterstall。

Sheneverworemake-uorjewelryexcetforaweddingringofgold。Herhairwasfine，sleekandblackandalwaysutuinaknotintheneck。Shewouldnthearofgettingahaircutoraerm。Hersmallsilver-rimmedince-nezonlylefthernosewhenshewenttobed。

Whenevermumhadfinishedaletter，shegaveittodadforhimtoostit。Thensheutthewaterontoboil，andwesatdownatthetableandtalkedaboutthegoodolddayswhenourItalian-Americanfamilyhadbeenafamilyoften:mum，dadandeightchildren。Fiveboysandthreegirls。Itishardtounderstandthattheyhadallmovedawayfromhometowork，enrollinthearmy，orgetmarried。Allexcetme。

Aroundnextsringmumhadgottwomoresonstowriteto。Everyeveningshewrotethreedifferentletterswhichshegavetomeanddadafterwardssowecouldaddourgreetings。

Littlebylittletherumouraboutmumsletterssread。Onedayasmallwomanknockedatourdoor。Hervoicetrembledassheasked:“Isittrueyouwriteletters?”

“Iwritetomysons。”

“Andyoucanreadtoo?”whiseredthewoman。

“Sure。”

Thewomanoenedherbagandulledoutaileofairmailletters。“Read……leasereadthemaloudtome。”

TheletterswerefromthewomanssonwhowasasoldierinEuroe，ared-hairedboywhomumrememberedhavingseensittingwithhisbrothersonthestairsinfrontofourhouse。MumreadthelettersonebyoneandtranslatedthemfromEnglishtoItalian。Thewomanseyeswelleduwithtears。“NowIhavetowritetohim，”shesaid。Buthowwasshegoingtodoit?

“Makesomecoffee，Octavia，”mumyelledtomeinthelivingroomwhileshetookthewomanwithherintothekitchenandseatedheratthetable。Shetookthefountainen，inkandairmailnoteaerandbegantowrite。Whenshehadfinished，shereadtheletteraloudtothewoman。

“HowdidyouknowthatwasexactlywhatIwantedtosay?”

“Ioftensitandlookatmyboysletters，justlikeyou，withoutaclueaboutwhattowrite。”

Afewdayslaterthewomanreturnedwithafriend，thenanotheroneandyetanotherone-theyallhadsonswhofoughtinthewar，andtheyallneededletters。Mumhadbecomethecorresondentinourartoftown。Sometimesshewouldwritelettersalldaylong。

Mumalwaysinsistedthateolesignedtheirownletters，andthesmallwomanwiththegreyhairaskedmumtoteachherhowtodoit。“Isomuchwanttobeabletowritemyownnamesothatmysoncanseeit。”Thenmumheldthewomanshandinhersandmovedherhandovertheaeragainandagainuntilshewasabletodoitwithoutherhel。

Afterthatday，whenmumhadwrittenaletterforthewoman，shesigneditherself，andherfacebrighteneduinasmile。

Onedayshecametous，andmuminstantlyknewwhathadhaened。Allhoehaddisaearedfromhereyes。Theystoodhandinhandforalongtimewithoutsayingaword。Thenmumsaid:“Webettergotochurch。Therearecertainthingsinlifesogreatthatwecannotcomrehendthem。”Whenmumcamebackhome，shecouldntgetthered-hairedboyoutofhermind。

Afterthewarwasover，mumutawaytheenandaer。“Finito，”shesaid。Butshewaswrong。ThewomenwhohadcometoherforhelinwritingtotheirsonsnowcametoherwithlettersfromtheirrelativesinItaly。TheyalsocametoaskherforherhelingettingAmericancitizenshi。

Ononeoccasionmumadmittedthatshehadalwayshadasecretdreamofwritinganovel。“Whydidntyou?”Iasked。

“Alleoleinthisworldareherewithonearticularurose，”shesaid。“Aarently，mineistowriteletters。”Shetriedtoexlainwhyitabsorbedherso。

“Aletteruniteseolelikenothingelse。Itcanmakethemcry，itcanmakethemlaugh。Thereisnocaressmorelovelyandwarmthanaloveletter，becauseitmakestheworldseemverysmall，andbothsenderandreceiverbecomelikekingsintheirownkingdoms。Mydear，aletterislifeitself!”

Todayallmumslettersarelost。Butthosewhogotthemstilltalkaboutherandcherishthememoryofherlettersintheirhearts。

至今，我仍记得母亲的那些信。事情要追溯到1941年的12月。每天晚上，母亲总要坐在厨房的大饭桌旁，写信给我的弟弟约翰。约翰是在那年夏天应征入伍的。自从日本袭击珍珠港后，他就杳无音讯了。

约翰从没回信，我不知道为什么母亲还要这样一直坚持写下去。

“等等看吧，总有一天他会回信的。”母亲断言。她坚信思想和文字是息息相通的，这种关联强大得如同上帝赐予人类的光芒，这道光芒终有一天会照到约翰。

我不知道她是否只是在安慰自己、父亲，或我们这几个孩子。但我知道，我们一家人因此更为亲密了。终于有一天，我们盼到了约翰的回信，他安然无恙，驻扎在太平洋的一个岛屿上。

母亲写信时总署名“塞西莉娅·卡普奇”，每次我都要取笑她几句：“为什么不直接写‘母亲’呢？”

以前我一直没在意她把自己当成塞西莉娅·卡普奇，而不是母亲。我禁不住以另一种眼光去审视自己的母亲，她如此瘦弱、矮小，即使穿上高跟鞋，身高仍不足一米五。

母亲从不刻意地修饰自己，除了那枚结婚戒指外，她基本不戴其他首饰。柔顺黑亮的头发自然地盘在颈后，从不剪短发或烫发。鼻梁上那副小小的银丝眼镜只有在睡觉时才摘下来。

母亲每次写完信，都会把信交给父亲，让他寄出去。然后，她把水烧开，和我们围坐在桌旁，追忆昔日的美好时光：那时我们这个意裔的美籍家庭人丁兴旺，父母亲和我们八个兄弟姐妹——五男三女，快乐地生活在一起。现在大家因工作、入伍或婚姻等原因纷纷离开了家，只有我留了下来，真是难以想象。

第二年春天，母亲又开始给另外两个儿子写信。每天晚上，她都要先写好三封内容不同的信，然后让我和父亲在后面加上自己的问候。

渐渐地，母亲写信的事传开了。一天，一个身材矮小的女人敲开我们家的门，用颤抖的声音问母亲：“您真的会写信吗？”

“我经常写信给我的儿子们。”

“那你也能读信？”女人低声问。

“当然。”