She Left Her Shoes
爱的遗鞋
She left her shoes， she took everything else， her toothbrush， her clothes， and even that stupid little silver vase on the table we kept candy in. Just dumped it out on the table and took the vase. The tiny apartment we shared seemed different now， her stuff was gone， it wasn"t much really， although now the room seemed like a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces missing， incomplete. The closet seemed empty too； most of it was her stuff anyway. But there they were at the bottom， piled up like they usually were， every single one of them. Why did she leave her shoes？ She couldn"t have forgotten them， I knew too well that she took great pride in her shoe collection， but there they still were， right down to her favorite pair of sandals. They were black with a design etched into the wide band that stretched across the top of them， the soles scuffed and worn； a delicate imprint of where her toes rested was visible in the soft fabric.
It seemed funny to me， she walked out of my life without her shoes， is that irony， or am I thinking of something else？ In a way I was glad they were still here， she would have to come back for them， right？ I mean how could she go on with the rest of her life without her shoes？ But she"s not coming back， I know she isn"t， she would rather walk barefoot over glass than have to see me again. But Christ she left all of her shoes！ All of them， every sneaker， boot and sandal， every high heel and clog， every flip-flop. What do I do？ Do I leave them here， or bag them up and throw them in the trash？ Do I look at them every morning when I get dressed and wonder why she left them？ She knew it， she knows what"s she"s doing. I can"t throw them out for fear she may return for them someday. I can"t be rid of myself of her completely with all her shoes still in my life， can"t dispose of them or the person that walked in them.
Her shoes， leaving a deep footprint on my heart， I can"t sweep it away. All I can do is stare at them and wonder， stare at their laces and straps their buttons and tread. They still connect me to her though， in some distant bizarre way they do. I can remember the good times we had， what pair she was wearing at that moment in time. They are hers and no else"s， she wore down the heels， and she scuffed their sides， it"s her fragile footprint imbedded on the insole. I sit on the floor next to them and wonder how many places had she gone while wearing these shoes， how many miles she walked in them， what pair was she wearing when she decided to leave me？ I pick up a high heel she often wore and absently smell it， it"s not disgusting I think， it"s just the last tangible link I have to her. The last bit of reality I have of her. She left her shoes； she took everything else， except her shoes. They remain at the bottom of my closet， a shrine to her memory.
她把鞋子留在了这里，其他的她统统都带走了——包括她的牙刷、她的衣服，甚至我们摆放在桌上装糖果的银色小瓶子，她直接把糖果倒在了桌上，然后把瓶子拿走了。这个二人世界的小蜗居看上去已经和以前大不一样了，属于她的东西虽然不是特别多，可都给搬得干干净净，这间房子现在就如同一幅残缺的拼图，不再像以前那样完整。衣柜也变得空空如也，里面的东西本来都是她的。然而就在柜子的底层，也和往常一样堆积在那里，她的鞋子却给留了下来，一只也不少。她为什么要把鞋子留下来呢？她绝对不可能是忘了拿，我知道她向来是很宝贝她的鞋子收藏。可是，这些鞋子真的就躺在那里，还包括那双黑色的凉鞋，她的至爱凉鞋——宽宽的鞋面，上面还镂刻有花纹，鞋底已经磨损破旧，她的脚趾印还依稀可见于鞋内软皮上。
这可真让我百思不得其解，她既然选择离开我，却又不带走她的鞋？这是一种讽刺吗？还是我想歪了？从某种角度说，我又暗自高兴，鞋子既然给留了下来，那么她总有一天会回来拿的，对吗？我是说没了这些鞋子，她以后日子怎么过啊？可是，她不会再回来了。我知道她不会的，她宁愿光脚踩玻璃也不愿意回来看我的。可是，老天！她怎么就把鞋子给留下来了呢？所有的鞋，包括全部的球鞋、靴子、凉鞋，高跟鞋、木屐、人字拖……我该怎么办啊？任它们放在这儿，还是打包扔掉呢？我是不是要每天打开衣柜就看见它们，然后冥思苦想她留下鞋子的目的呢？她一定是有意这样做的，她很清楚自己在做什么。这些鞋子我不能扔，因为我怕有一天她会回来拿。她的鞋就这样留在我生命里，彻底摆脱对她的思念是不可能的，无论是鞋子还是它们的主人我也无法舍弃。
她的鞋子在我心中留下的深印实在难以抚平，我只能痴痴地看着她的鞋，看着那些鞋带，然后傻傻地把鞋扣系好。这些鞋子将我和她连结在一起，虽然方式是那样滑稽可笑。回想起和她在一起的快乐时光，想着她在那时那刻穿着哪双鞋子。鞋子是她的，不是别人的，鞋跟磨短了，鞋边磨破了，鞋内是她纤纤的足印。我席地坐在她的鞋子旁边，想着她穿着这些鞋子到过多少地方，走了多少的路？她最后下定决心要离开我时穿的又是哪双鞋呢？我拿起了一只她常穿的高跟鞋，心不在焉地嗅了一下，我一点也不觉得恶心，因为属于她而实实在在能让我拥有的就只剩那气息了，这也是回忆以外她留给我的最后一丝真实存在。她把鞋子遗留在这儿；其余一切都带走了，除了鞋子之外。它们躺在衣柜的底层，那个属于她的，属于回忆的神圣角落。
A Woman of Beauty and Grace
美丽优雅的女人
There were sensitivity and a beauty to her that have nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to， whose words were so easy to take to heart.
It is said that the true nature of being is veiled. The labor of words， the expression of art， the seemingly ceaseless buzz that is human thought all have in common the need to get at what really is so. The hope to draw close to and possess the truth of being can be a feverish one. In some cases it can even be fatal， if pleasure is one"s truth and its attainment more important than life itself. In other lives， though， the search for what is truthful gives life.
