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Whenever mum had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him to post it. Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at the table and talked about the good old days when our Italian-American family had been a family of ten: mum, dad and eight children. Five boys and three girls. It is hard to understand that they had all moved away from home to work, enroll in the army, or get married. All except me.Around next spring mum had got two more sons to write to. Every evening she wrote three different letters she gave to me and dad afterwards so we could add our greetings. Little by little the rumour about mum's letters spread. One day a small woman knocked at our door. Her voice trembled as she asked: "Is it true you write letters?" "I write to my sons." "And you can read too?" whispered the woman. "Sure." The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pile of airmail letters. "Read, please read them aloud to me." The letters were from the woman's son who was a soldier in Europe, a red-haired boy who mum remembered having seen sitting with his brothers on the stairs in front of our house. Mum read the letters one by one and translated them from English to Italian. The woman's eyes welled up with tears. "Now I have to write to him," she said. But how was she going to do it?
每次母亲写完信，就会把信交给父亲去邮寄。然后她把水烧开，和我们围坐在桌旁，聊聊过去的好日子。从前我们这个意裔的美国家庭可是人丁旺盛：父母亲和我们八个兄弟姐妹。五男三女，济济一堂。现在他们都因工作、入伍或婚姻纷纷离开了家，只有我留下来。 第二年春天，母亲也要开始给另外两个儿子写信了。每天晚上，她先写好三封内容不同的信交给我和父亲，然后我们再加上自己的问候。 母亲写信的事渐渐传开。一天，一个矮小的女人来敲我们家的门，用颤抖的声音问：” 你真的会写信吗?“ ”我写给我的儿子。“ ”那么你也能读信咯?女人小声问。“ ”当然。“ 女人打开背包，掏出一叠航空信。 ”请您大声读给我听好吗?“ 信是女人在欧洲参战的儿子写来的，母亲依稀还记得他的模样，他有一头红色的头发，常和他的兄弟一起坐在我们家门前的楼梯上。 母亲把信一封接一封地从英文翻成意大利文读出来。听完，那女人双眼噙着泪水说：”我一定要给他写回信。 “可是她该怎么办呢?