I visit her grave every day. She does not have a headstone yet, her stone will be unveiled on her11)yahrzeit, the anniversary of her death. All she has is a small patch of grass and four 12)studs, marking the boundaries of her plot, a tree that in the early days provided frequent shade, lots of sunshine. Summer turned to autumn, and the leaves fell, sharing a beautiful New England 13)vista. Winter came, covering her earth in snow so deep I could not reach her burial plot, offering a sad metaphor.
我每天都到她的墓地那里去。她的坟头上并没有墓碑，要等到举行她的周年忌辰仪式上才能立碑。她有的只是一小格草地，那用四个钉子来界定的方寸之地，一棵早上能稍稍遮点荫的树，以及大片大片的阳光。夏去秋来，落叶纷纷，好一派新英格兰的诗情画意。冬临大地，银装素裹，厚厚的积雪把那方墓地掩埋了，令我无法触及，这是一个悲伤的隐喻。
The love I felt for her, the love so many people felt for her in her short life, 14)lingers on. But I am still 15)in the deepest throes of grief, an agony from which I'm not sure I'll ever completely recover. From which I am not sure I ever want to recover. I mourn her death, and I cry to have lost her in the world. I cry for myself, admittedly, selfish tears, to be without her. I cry for all of the things she'll never get to do and for the person she won't grow to become. I cry for all of the books I thought I'd read to her, and will never be able to read to her.
在她短暂的一生里，我对她的爱以及那么多人对她的爱，久久驻留。但我仍然沉湎在至深的悲痛之中，一种我不确定自己能否克服的伤痛，一种我不确定自己是否愿意克服的伤痛。我为她的逝去哀痛，为她的离去而哀嚎。无可否认，我也为自己而哭泣，那是自私的泪水，因为她不在我身边了。我为她不能做的事以及不能成就的事业而哭泣。我为那些我未能朗读给她听的书籍而哭泣，永远也不能为她朗读了。
So when I go to the 16)cemetery, I bring her the books I might have read. And I read.
于是每次去墓地，我都会带上那些我可能会为她朗读的书籍，然后读给她听。
I read to her because I wanted her to love literature, and because in my life, books saved me, enabling me to cope with all of the things that I have not known how to handle. And maybe they still do. I realize, I am reading not to her, but to myself.
我朗读给她听是因为我想让她爱上文学，也因为，过去，在我的生命中，书籍拯救了我，让我学会了面对那些令我手足无措的事情。或许至今它们仍能助我度过难关。然后，我意识到，我不是朗读给她听，而是给我自己听。
