昨天我寄给你一封信。而今天在电话里

Yesterday I sent you a letter. And today on the phone

你告诉我你怀孕了。我收拾行李就回来，

you tell me you are pregnant. I pack up and return,

你在机场迎接我，甚至比在信中更可爱，

you greet me at the airport, you’re even lovelier than

那封我寄给你的仍在途中的信。我们建造

in my letter that’s on its way to you. We build

房子，我们的孩子长大，我们的父母皱缩，

a house, our child grows, our parents shrink,

随后几年是汗水与泪，我们小心翼翼

then a few years of sweat and tears, in which we prudently

为越来越冷的日子腌渍甘蓝和小黄瓜。

pickle cabbage and gherkins for the ever-colder days.

在我们生活的涂色书里，空白的地方

In the coloring book of our life there are fewer and fewer

越来越少，蜡笔越来越短，我们试图精细，

blank spaces, the crayons grow shorter, we try to be precise,

但即便如此还是越过边线。我们让自己

but even so we go over the lines. We busy ourselves

忙于日常琐事，我们的路越来

with everyday matters, and our paths are ever

越深，开始看着像隧道。同时，

deeper, they start to look like tunnels. Meanwhile

我的信仍在寄给你的途中。你将拆开它，

my letter’s on its way to you. You’ll open it when

在它最适合你的时候。

it suits you best.