In my old bedroom I reach for boxes

在我的旧卧室，我伸手取出盒子，

and the dust of undisturbed years rises

未被打扰的岁月的灰尘

in the afternoon light. As children we drew

飞扬在下午的光线中。儿时的我们

our names on such powdery floors. I flick

将名字写在傅了粉似的地板上。我浏览

through high school report cards, forgotten

高中的成绩报告单，忘了归还的

library books, letters now tearing and flaking.

图书馆的书，现已破碎不堪的信。

My hand pauses on an envelope, sealed but unsent.

我的手停在一个信封上，密封却没有寄出。

On the front, the name of our neighbours,

在正面，是我们邻居的名字，

on the back, above the name of my family, I slide

在背面，在我家人的名字上方，我将

a finger under the flap and tear open the years.

手指滑落到封盖之下，撕开岁月。

Inside, I find, on a Christmas card two decades old,

在里面，我发现一张二十年前的圣诞卡，

a greeting to the tailor next door, who has since died,

给隔壁裁缝的问候，他已离世，

in the writing of my father, who has since died.

是我父亲写的，他已离世。

How brief and irretrievable our actions,

多么短暂和难以追寻：我们的行动，

the writing and the forgetting,

书写与遗忘，

and the lives that unfolded from them.

以及由它们展开的生活。

Opening a letter not addressed to me,

打开一封并非写给我的信，

I wonder if I am stealing a gift,

我不知道我是在窃取一份礼物，

or completing a small, necessary ritual.

还是在完成一个微小而必要的仪式。

In the dusty room I say their names out loud

在布满灰尘的房间，我大声念出他们的名字，

and place the card again among the old papers.

将卡片重新放回那些旧纸之中。