By+Mya+Guarnieri+譯/程天淇

When my mom started following me on Twitter, I felt a bit like a teenager who couldnt get any privacy. After I tweeted a friend to say that his brother was unusually handsome, she chimed in, writing, “Oh, he is cute.” I deleted the tweet and kept it strictly professional after that.

But the change she made recently to her profile was even more jarring. She added one word, putting it right at the beginning of her self-description: artist.

I knew that my mom had gone to art school when she was young. I also knew that shed dropped out. A single watercolor was all that remained of her life as a painter. It showed a woman with long, flowing hair standing in the rain, trying, unsuccessfully, to hold petals in the cupped palms of her hands. The picture was hung in our study in a plain, silver frame.

Id always admired the piece. But Id viewed it as the youthful work of a dilettante, of someone who liked going to galleries and museums but who wasnt a true artist.

My first response to my mothers update was guilt. What else had I missed about my mother? I studied her tweets. And then another surprise: I do love Savannah.

My whole childhood in Gainesville, Florida, I listened to her wax poetic about “the city”—her native New York. “I should have never left the city,” she said, as we puttered along in our battered, blue Ford Pinto.

Sitting at my computer in Israel, I wondered when Mom had embraced the South. I wondered if wed be closer if I didnt live half way around the world. I tried to remember the last time wed asked each other questions that went beyond the superficial details of our lives.

Thered been hints that we didnt know each other very well anymore. When Mom came to visit me in Israel in 2008, she brought me a pink sweater. I do not wear pink under any circumstances.

This summer, when I visited the States, I made a confession to my mom: Yes, I go out for a jog once in a while, but I dont enjoy it. Mother-daughter runs were the core of our relationship during my teenage years. She didnt take the news well—she continued to protest. “But you told me once you wished you hadnt quit...” she said, on Skype.

So I e-mailed my mom, asking her about the update to her Twitter profile. I worried that this admission of how little I knew about her life would hurt her feelings. But I asked myself what would trouble her more—that I didnt know? Or that I didnt ask? I hit “send”.

Mom is usually a little slow to respond. But, this time, I got a reply the same day.

“Ive been feeling very frustrated creatively for quite some time, since I no longer do design for a living...Ive been searching for a creative outlet for a few years. And Ive been quite interested in rug hooking. I attend a class once a week. Its mostly older women. I enjoy just sitting there hooking while listening to them chit-chat.”

This didnt jibe with the image I had of my mom. Shed been a New Yorker—impatient, walk fast, talk fast. Who was this woman who sat quietly, hooking rugs, listening to the ladies around her? I struggled to picture it.

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She went on, explaining that her new hobby had led her to some realizations of her own. Mom had had a strained relationship with her stepmother, who passed away recently. When shed gone to New York to console my grandfather, guess what Mom noticed on their shelves? Books on rug hooking. Theyd had more in common than theyd known.

“You know, when I was young, I kept these little notebooks. I wrote everything down. I wanted to be a writer, too. Like you,” Mom added.

Our pictures of each other need updating. But, I realize, we know each others core, some essence that stands still, unmoved by time. Yes, the adult me cant stand pink. But I always wanted to be a writer.

I tapped out a quick e-mail asking Mom, “Whats all this about loving Savannah? What about New York? Do you still want to move back to the city someday?”

當媽媽開始在推特上“關(guān)注”我時，我感覺自己變得有點兒像十幾歲的孩子，一點隱私都沒有了。有一次，我給一個朋友發(fā)了一條推文，說他的哥哥真是帥呆了，之后媽媽便“插話”進來，寫道：“哇，他真的很可愛。”于是我刪掉了這條推文，從此在推特上只談?wù)隆?/p>

最近媽媽對自己的個人信息作了更改。這么一改，我更感到驚訝了。就在自我描述的開頭，她加了一個詞：藝術(shù)家。

我知道媽媽年輕的時候上過藝術(shù)學校。我還知道她沒畢業(yè)就輟學了。繪畫生涯留給她的所有念想，就只有一幅水彩畫。畫上，一位長發(fā)飄飄的女子站在雨中，徒勞地試圖用雙手接住片片花瓣。畫就掛在我們家的書房里，鑲了一個樸素的銀色畫框。

我一直很欣賞這幅畫。但我也一直認為這只是業(yè)余藝術(shù)愛好者的早期作品罷了。這些人喜歡逛美術(shù)館、博物館，但并不是真正的藝術(shù)家。

看到媽媽的更新，我的第一反應(yīng)是內(nèi)疚。關(guān)于媽媽的生活，我還錯過了別的什么嗎？我仔細瀏覽了她的推文。然后，又一條推文讓我很驚訝：我真的很愛薩凡納。

我的童年是在佛羅里達州的蓋恩斯維爾度過的。整個童年歲月里我都在聽她滿懷詩意地描述“那個城市”——她的家鄉(xiāng)紐約?！拔覊焊筒辉撾x開那個城市?！泵看萎斘覀冏依锬禽v破舊的藍色福特平托車去閑逛時，她總會這么說。

如今，身在以色列的我，坐在電腦前，很好奇媽媽從什么時候開始從心底接受了南方的生活。我想知道如果我們不是像現(xiàn)在這樣隔著半個地球，彼此是不是會更親近一些。我努力回憶，除了談?wù)摕o關(guān)緊要的生活瑣事，我們上一次詢問彼此“有深度”的問題是什么時候的事了？

其實，一直都有跡象表明我們母女倆不再了解彼此。2008年，媽媽來以色列看我，她給我?guī)Я艘患奂t色的毛衣。我不穿粉紅色的衣服，任何情況下都不穿。

今年夏天，我回了一趟美國。我向媽媽坦白：沒錯，我是偶爾出去慢跑，但我并不喜歡這項運動。在我十幾歲的時候，母女一起跑步是維系我們關(guān)系的核心紐帶。聽說我不喜歡跑步，媽媽有點難以接受。她在Skype上繼續(xù)向我抗議：“但你曾經(jīng)跟我說過，你真希望自己當時沒有退出……”

于是我給媽媽寫了封電郵，問她推特上個人信息更新的事情。我有點擔心，像這樣承認我對她的生活知之甚少，會不會傷害她的感情。但我又捫心自問，究竟哪一樣會讓她更煩惱：是我對她的生活一無所知，還是連問都不問？我點了“發(fā)送”。

媽媽的回復通常都有一點滯后。不過這一次，我當天就收到了她的回信。

“自從不再做設(shè)計工作以來，我一直都很沮喪，覺得自己不再有創(chuàng)造力……這幾年，我一直在尋找一個可以發(fā)揮自己創(chuàng)意的途徑。最近，我喜歡上了手工地毯鉤編。我上了一個手工地毯鉤編班，一周一次課。班里大部分是年紀較大的女性。我很喜歡坐在那兒，一邊鉤地毯，一邊聽她們閑嘮家常。”

這完全不是我心目中媽媽的樣子。她之前一直是個典型的紐約人——沒什么耐心，走路風風火火，說話語速很快?，F(xiàn)在，這個安靜地坐在那里一邊鉤地毯，一邊聽身邊的婦人們閑聊的女人是誰？我努力在腦海中勾勒那幅畫面。

她繼續(xù)向我解釋說，她的這個新愛好也讓她對自己有了一些新的認識。媽媽以前和她的繼母關(guān)系比較緊張。她繼母最近去世了，媽媽去了趟紐約，去安慰我的外祖父。猜猜媽媽在他們家的書架上看到了什么？關(guān)于地毯鉤編的書。其實，她倆之間有很多共同點，只是她們不知道而已。

“你知道嗎？我年輕的時候，有好多小筆記本。我把什么都記在本子上。我那時也想成為一名作家，和你一樣?！眿寢層终f。

是的，我們對彼此的了解需要不斷更新。但我也意識到，我們了解彼此的本質(zhì)——某種巋然佇立于心中的最根本的東西，它不會因時間的流逝而動搖。是的，長大后的我不能忍受粉紅色。但是，我一直想成為一名作家。

我立刻敲了一封電郵給媽媽，問她：“你說愛薩凡納是怎么回事？那紐約呢？你還希望有一天能搬回去嗎？”

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