To this day, I remember my mother's letter. It all started in1February 194 1. Every night, she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote to my brother Johnny, who was drafted into the army that summer. We haven't heard from him since Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

I don't understand why Johnny never writes back, but my mother keeps writing to him.

"Wait and see-we will hear from him one day," she claimed. Mom said that there is a direct connection between the brain and the written words, just as strong as the light God has given us. She believes that this light will find Johnny.

I don't know if she said that to calm herself, dad or all of us. But I know it helps us to unite, and one day a letter really came. Johnny is alive on an island in the Pacific Ocean.

I am always amused by the fact that my mother signed "Cecilia Capuzi" in her letters, and I make fun of her for it. "Why don't you just write' Mom'?" I said.

I didn't realize that she always thought she was CeciliaCapuzzi. Not as a mother. I began to look at her in a new way. This petite and delicate woman is only one and a half meters tall even in high heels.

She never wears makeup or jewelry except a golden wedding ring. Her hair is slender, smooth and black, and she always ties a knot around her neck. She doesn't want a haircut or a perm. Her little silver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she slept.

Whenever mom finishes writing a letter, she gives it to dad to post. Then she boiled the water, and we sat at the table and talked about the good old days, when our Italian-American family was a family of ten: mother, father and eight children. Five boys and three girls. It is hard to understand that they all leave home to work, join the army or get married. Except me.

About next spring, my mother has two more sons to write letters to. Every night she writes three different letters to my father and me, so that we can greet each other.

Rumors about mother's letter gradually spread. One day, a little girl knocked on our door She asked in a trembling voice, "Is it true that you wrote?"

"I write to my sons."

"Can you read?" The woman whispered.

"Of course."

The woman opened her bag and took out a stack of airmail letters. "Read ... please read it aloud to me."

These letters came from this woman's son who was a soldier in Europe, a boy with red hair. My mother remembered seeing him and his brothers sitting on the stairs in front of our house. Mother read these letters one by one and translated them from English into Italian. The woman's eyes were full of tears. "Now I must write to him," she said. But what is she going to do?

"Go and make some coffee, Octavia," my mother called to me in the living room, and took the woman into the kitchen and sat her at the table. She took pen, ink and airmail stationery and began to write. When she finished writing the letter, she read it aloud to the woman.

"How do you know that's what I want to say?"

"I often sit and read my children's letters, just like you, and don't know what to write. "

A few days later, the woman came back with a friend, then another, and another-they all had sons who fought in the war, and they all needed letters. Mother became a correspondent in our town. Sometimes she writes letters all day.

Mother always insists that people sign their letters. The little woman with gray hair asks her to teach her how to do it. "I really want to write my name so that my son can see it." Then my mother held the woman's hand and moved her hand on the paper again and again until she could do it without her help.

After that day, when my mother finished writing a letter for the lady, she signed it herself, and a smile appeared on her face.

One day, she came to see us, and mother immediately knew what had happened. All hope in her eyes vanished. They stood hand in hand for a long time without saying a word. Then Mummy said, "We'd better go to church. Some things in life are too important for us to understand. " When mother came home, she couldn't forget the red-haired boy.

After the war, my mother put away her pen and paper. "Finito," she said. But she was wrong. The women who came to her for help in writing letters to their sons now come to her with letters from relatives in Italy. They also came to ask her for help in obtaining American citizenship.

Once, my mother admitted that she had always had a secret dream of writing novels.

"Why didn't you?" I asked.

"All the people in this world come here with a special purpose," she said. "Obviously, what I mean is writing letters." She tried to explain why it attracted her so much.

"Nothing can unite people more than a letter. It can make them cry or laugh.

There is no lovelier and warmer caress than a love letter, because it makes the world small, and both the sender and the receiver become like kings of their own kingdom. Dear, a letter is life itself! "

All my mother's letters are gone today. But those who get them still talk about her and cherish her.

Memories of her letter in their hearts.

Chinese translation:

I still remember my mother's letter. Things should start from 194 1 year 65438+February. Mother sits at the big kitchen table every night and writes to my brother John. John was drafted into the army that summer. He hasn't been heard from since Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

John never answers letters. I don't understand why my mother insists on writing letters.

But mother still insisted: "wait and see, one day he will write back to us." She is convinced that thoughts and words are directly connected, and this connection is as powerful as the light God gave to mankind, which will eventually shine on John.

Although I'm not sure she's just comforting herself, or her father, or our children, our family is closer because of this. Finally, we waited for John's reply. It turned out that he was stationed on an island in the Pacific Ocean, safe and sound.

Mom always said, "Cecilia? Cappucci's signature often makes me laugh and laugh at her. I asked, "Why not just write' Mom'?"

I've never noticed that she thinks of herself as Cecilia before? Cappucci, not mom. I can't help looking at my mother with new eyes. She is so elegant and short. Even wearing high heels, her height is still less than 1.5 meters. Mom has always been plain, except for the wedding ring on her hand, she basically doesn't wear other jewelry. Her hair is smooth and shiny, and it is coiled at the back of her neck. She never cuts her hair short or curls it. Only when she sleeps will she take off her little silver glasses.

Every time my mother finishes writing a letter, she will give it to my father for mailing. Then she boiled the water and sat around the table with us, talking about the good old days. Once upon a time, our Italian-American family was full of people: my parents and our eight brothers and sisters-five men and three women-got together. Now they have all left home because of work, enlistment or marriage, and I am the only one left. It's incredible to think about it.

The next spring, my mother will also start writing letters to the other two sons. Every night, she will write three letters with different contents to my father and me, and then we will add our own greetings.

The news of mother's letter spread gradually. One day, a short woman knocked on our door and asked in a trembling voice, "Can you really write letters?"

"I wrote to my son."

"So you can read letters, too?" The woman whispered.

"Of course."

The woman opened her backpack and took out a stack of airmail letters. "Please, can you read it aloud to me?"

This letter was written by the son of a woman who fought in Europe. His mother vaguely remembers his appearance. He has red hair and often sits on the stairs in front of our house with his brother. Mother read English letters into Italian one by one. After hearing this, the woman said with tears in her eyes, "I must write back to him." But what should she do?

"Ottavi, go and make a cup of coffee." Mother called me in the living room and led the woman to the kitchen table and sat down. She took out her pen, ink and writing paper and began to write letters. Read it aloud to her after writing.

"This is what I want to say. How do you know? "

"Like you, I often sit there reading my son's letters and have no idea what to write."

A few days later, the woman came back with a friend, then another, another … They all had sons who were fighting on the battlefield, and they all needed to write letters. Mother became a correspondent in our town, and sometimes she wrote letters all day.

Mother often insists that everyone should sign. A woman with gray hair asked her mother to teach her how to sign language. "I really want to write a name for my son to see." So her mother taught her to write hand in hand on the paper again and again until she could sign it herself.

The next day, my mother wrote a letter to that woman and she signed it herself. A smile appeared on the woman's face.

One day, she came to my house with no hope in her eyes, and my mother understood at once. The two men held hands and were silent for a long time. Later, my mother said, "Let's go to church. Some things in life are too profound for us to understand. " Mother has always remembered the little boy with red hair since she came home.

After the war, my mother put away her pen and paper and said, "It's all over." But she was wrong. The woman who asked her mother to write a letter to her son came again with a letter from her Italian relatives. They also asked their mothers to help their relatives apply for naturalization.

Once my mother admitted that she always had a wish to write a novel. "Why not write?" I asked.

Mother tried to explain why she was so addicted to writing letters. "Everyone came to this world for a purpose. Obviously, I'm here to write. "

"Letters connect people irreplaceably, which makes people laugh and cry. Love letters are more intimate and warm than any caress, because they make the world smaller, and both the writer and the receiver become kings in their own world. Dear, faith is life itself! "

Today, all my mother's letters were lost. But those who received the letter still talked about her and kept the memory of the letter in their hearts.