我们到第六个发球区时，我仿佛又再度陷入了爱河。我觉得自己就像是一位正陪伴着白马王子的新娘，而此时正努力追赶白色小球的丈夫也突然变得是那么迷人。
当我们到达第七个发球区时，我感到他看我的时间还胜于球，“眼睛看着球。”我嗔怪他。
“不，我喜欢看着你。”他回答。
那一刻他决定和我一起坐球车，这回他也不介意我把车开得飞快了。到达第八个发球区时，我们的手已经握在了一起。他握着我的手是因为一时害怕还是他喜欢这么做，我不得而知。不管怎样，我都喜欢他握着我的手。我们已经好久没有手握手了。
第九洞，是最后一个洞，也是最棒的一洞。下车之前，他竟然倾身过来吻我。“你能来我真高兴，”他说，“我非常开心。”
“下星期我们还来，好吗？”我问，然后我们都笑了。
“好啊，下次我们要打十八洞。”他肯定地说。他用力将球击了出去，球飞进了树林里。然后我们哈哈大笑着去找打丢的球。
这次，我没有任何怨言，丈夫很开心，我很喜欢他的陪伴。高尔夫成了我们共处的一个不错的借口。
我们不仅找到了丢失的球，也找到了彼此的那份爱。
至 爱
Moments of Love
佚名 / Anonymous
By David S. Pisetsky, M. D.
When I first saw her, she was walking across the med-school quad. I stood motionless as if stunned, following her with my eyes. She is the one, I said to myself.
It was the first day of school. When I asked a classmate about her, he told me to forget it. She has a boyfriend, he said.
A few months later I heard she'd ended her relationship. But I waited at least half a year to ask for a date. When I telephoned her dormitory and asked nervously for her, I transposed the syllables of her first and last names into ludicrous garble. "Dinner on Saturday?" I proposed, embarrassed and expecting rejection. "I would enjoy that," she answered, sounding pleased.
On Saturday I greeted her at the dorm and was again entranced by her loveliness. I had made reservations at a restaurant 30 miles away. I lost my way and drove aimlessly on rural roads for an hour as my exasperation mounted. She remained good-humored-happy, she said, to tour villages whose histories she had read about.
We never located the restaurant, and then almost ran out of gas. We finally ate at 10 p.m., hamburgers and fries at a dinner. In her floral dress, with her straight blond hair and classic features, she stood out among the local kids.
Back at school, I was ready to apologize for the evening. But I felt her warm hand take mine, and then she quickly kissed my cheek. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," she said softly. Before I comprehended what had happened, she disappeared into the dormitory.
How many times have there been moments like that, moments of such encompassing grace and love that I doubted their actuality? Moments like the day of our marriage, when on a crisp Sunday morning on the Pacific coast she entered the church on her father's arm and I gazed down the aisle at my soon-to-be wife. Or the moments when our two children were born and her face became radiant as she emerged from the unreachable realm of labor into exultation.
But October 15, 1993, was Different. That day, we arose at 5 a. m., having a hard slept. How can you rest when a blade will soon sever flesh so dear? She kissed both of our children as they slept, but they never stirred or said "Good luck" or "I love you, Mommy." In the hospital, after we signed the papers, I watched her change into a faded cotton gown and two pairs of socks, as if the worst injury that day would be the chill of the operating room.
She cried in my arms and said she didn't want the surgery. I held her hand as an I. V. was inserted into her arm. In a few seconds her tears stopped and she closed those eyes that had always seemed so clever and clear, but now looked so fearful.
Feeling frantic and disconnected I kissed her, and then she was wheeled away through the unforgiving doors of the operating suite. I spent the day in the waiting room polishing a manuscript whose only significance was its power to distract.
When she returned to her room late that afternoon, on her chest was an expanse of billowing white bandage placed by a surgeon's hands with a precision and delicacy she would have admired. I was reminded of the coverlet she had appliquéd for our children's cradle when they were infants. The bandage looked gentle and protective—reassuring and not as harsh as I had expected.
Sitting beside her in a dimly lit room that smelled sharply of disinfectant, I realized that because my life was so intertwined with hers, I, too, was a patient. I felt depleted and wrecked as I stared blankly out the window at pink-gray clouds slowly traversing the afternoon sky.
It was almost 7p. m. before she stirred. I heard her moan, and moved to the edge of the bed. I lightly touched her lips with an ice chip from the pitcher on her bedside table, and brushed the gray-flecked hair across her sweaty brow.
"I love you, "I said.
At these words, her eyes opened hesitantly. At first her gaze seemed confused and unfocused, but for an instant her eyes sharpened with recognition, and a gentle smile lifted the edges of her mouth.
"I love you too, "she whispered, and then her eyelids shut. I was close to exhaustion and dislocated in time as I recalled the moment I first saw her. It was as if I was young again and the sun was resplendent in the morning sky. She is the one, I said once more in my mind's voice. She is the one.
第一次见到她时，她正在校园的操场上漫步。我站在那里，目光追随着她的倩影，呆住了。她就是我的至爱，我对自己说。
那正是开学的第一天，我向同学问起她，他们说她已经有男朋友了，让我忘了她。
几个月后，听说她跟男朋友分手了。但是，至少过了半年后，我才向她提出约会的请求。我打电话到寝室找她，紧张得吐字不清，甚至把她的前后名字都说反了。“周六晚上请你吃晚饭，好吗？”提议完，我尴尬极了，害怕她会拒绝。“乐意之至。”她的声音听起来似乎很开心。
星期六，我去宿舍接她，她的美丽再次深深地打动了我。我在30里外的餐馆预订了晚餐。开车去那儿时，我却迷路了，在乡间小路上漫无目的地转了一个多小时后，我越来越焦躁，她却一直兴致高昂。她说，她读过这些乡村的历史，很高兴能来游玩。
我们最终没能找到那家餐馆，汽油快用完了。10点时，我们才吃了点汉堡和薯条，算是晚餐。她身着美丽的花裙，金黄的直发和娇好的面容，使她在当地孩子中间显得更加光彩照人。
回到学校后，我正要为晚上的一切道歉，但感觉到她用自己那温暖的手握住了我的手，然后迅速地在我脸上吻了一下，温柔地说道：“谢谢你让我度过一个快乐的夜晚，”我还没回过神来，她已消失在寝室里了。
我们之前曾有过多少这样的时刻啊——充满了包容、优雅与爱意，我几乎不敢相信。记得婚礼那天，在太平洋海滨，那个清新的星期天早晨，她挽着父亲的手步入教堂，我站在圣坛旁，向徐徐走来的她望去，她即将成为我妻；又或是我们的两个孩子出生，她经历了旁人无法体会的分娩痛楚后，脸上因欣喜而光彩四溢。
但是1993年10月15日，情形却完全不同。那天，在一个难眠之夜之后，我们早上5点钟就起床了。当手术刀即将划开你心上人的血肉肌肤时，你又怎能安然入眠呢？她吻了吻我们两个熟睡的孩子，但他们却没有醒来对她说“祝您好运”或者“我爱您，妈妈”。到了医院，签完一些文件后，我看她换上一件褪了色的棉袍和一双袜子，似乎手术室最大的伤害是寒冷。
她扑在我怀里哭着说不做手术。我握着她的手，注射器扎进她的手臂，泪水很快停住了，那本清澈、机灵的双眼，现在却闭上了，看来起似乎充满了恐惧。
我痛苦而慌乱地与她吻别，然后，看着她穿过那道无情的门，被推进了手术室。我整天待在候诊室，用校对稿子来分散我的焦虑。
