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厨房的灯
那天天还没亮，我起来上厕所。
路过厨房的时候，我看见里面亮着灯。厨房的门只开了一条缝，我妈背对着门口，站在灶台前。她一只手扶着锅盖，一只手在案板上切着什么，刀碰案板的声音很轻，像是怕吵醒谁。
我停住了。我从来不知道早上六点多的厨房是这个样子：抽油烟机开着最小的一档，嗡嗡地响，锅里的粥冒着白气，蒸屉上卧着两个馒头。灶台边上放着我的饭盒，盖子已经扣好了。
我妈把鸡蛋打进锅里，刺啦一声，她赶紧把火拧小。这时候她发现了我。
怎么醒了？再去睡会儿。她说话的声音比平时轻。
我站在门口没动，看她把煎蛋盛出来，边缘有点焦，她把焦边掰下来自己吃了，把中间完好的那面盖到我的盘子里。粥盛出来，吹了吹，又拿勺子搅了搅，怕烫。
我一直觉得早饭是自己在桌上长出来的。六点五十我起床，七点十分桌上一定有粥、有蛋、有切好的苹果，苹果从来都是小块，从来不用我自己削。我连我妈早上起来做饭这件事都不知道，我只知道早饭好吃和不好吃。
那天我回到床上，翻来覆去睡不着。我想起我妈的眼睛下面一直有两块淡淡的青，我还问过她是不是没睡好，她说是我看错了。
第二天早上，闹钟还没响，我自己爬起来了。厨房的灯还亮着，那个背还是背对着门口。我走过去，从后面拉了拉我妈的睡衣。
妈，谢谢。我说，谢谢你每天早起做饭。
我妈回过头，手里还拿着铲子，愣了两秒钟，然后说：快洗脸去，今天有糖三角。她的声音有点哑。
早饭还是热腾腾的，粥上面浮着一层细细的米油。我喝得比平时慢，我妈就坐在对面看我，看得我自己都不好意思了。
后来我每天早上都早点起。厨房的灯还是先亮着，但我进去的时候会说一句早。有时候我帮我妈倒牛奶，有时候我把凳子摆好。灯还是六点多亮，粥还是热的，只是厨房里多了一个人。
The Light in the Kitchen
It was not yet dawn that day, and I got up to go to the bathroom.
Passing the kitchen, I saw the light on inside. The door was open just a crack, and my mother stood at the stove with her back to the doorway. One hand held the pot lid, the other cut something on the board, the knife falling softly, as if afraid of waking someone.
I stopped. I had never known what the kitchen looked like past six in the morning: the range hood on its lowest setting, humming; white steam rising from the congee; two steamed buns lying in the steamer. My lunch box sat by the stove, its lid already closed.
She cracked an egg into the pan. It sizzled, and she quickly turned the flame down. Then she noticed me.
Why are you up? Go back to sleep, she said, her voice softer than usual.
I stood in the doorway and watched her plate the fried egg. Its edges were a little burnt. She broke off the burnt edges for herself and covered the intact middle onto my plate. She ladled out the congee, blew on it, stirred it with a spoon, afraid it might scald me.
I had always believed breakfast simply grew onto the table by itself. I woke at ten to seven, and by ten past seven there was always congee, always an egg, always apple cut into small pieces that I never had to peel. I did not even know that my mother got up every morning to cook. I only knew whether breakfast tasted good or not.
Back in bed that day, I turned and turned and could not sleep. I remembered the two faint dark shadows always sitting beneath the eyes of my mother. I had once asked her if she slept badly, and she said I was seeing things.
The next morning, before the alarm rang, I got up by myself. The kitchen light was still on, and the same back still faced away from the door. I walked over and tugged the pajamas of my mother from behind.
Thank you, Mom, I said. Thank you for getting up early every day to cook.
She turned around, spatula still in her hand, and stood frozen for two seconds. Then she said: Go wash your face. There are sugar buns today. Her voice was a little hoarse.
Breakfast was steaming as always, a thin film of rice cream floating on the congee. I drank more slowly than usual, and my mother sat across from me watching, until I grew shy.
After that I rose earlier every morning. The kitchen light still came on first, but now I said good morning when I walked in. Sometimes I poured the milk for her, sometimes I set out the stools. The light still came on past six, the congee was still hot, only the kitchen now held one more person.
五点五十的闹钟
谢谢妈妈四个字一说出口，我妈的眼圈一下就红了。要讲清楚这个，得从那个闹钟说起。
我妈手机上有两个闹钟，一个五点五十，一个六点。五点五十那个一响，过两三秒就停了，轻得像被人捂住了嘴。我一直以为是给六点那个定的，直到有一天我数错了日子，周六不用上学，我却在五点五十一分醒了，闹钟响之前一分钟，我听见我妈已经下床了。
五点五十的闹钟是给我妈自己定的。她怕六点那个一响吵到我，所以每次都抢在前面按掉。这个秘密我琢磨了一个星期，越琢磨心里越不是滋味。
那个周六我躺不住，爬起来去厨房。灯已经亮了。蒸锅冒着热气，我妈正在把煎好的蛋往盘子里夹，油烟机的声音开到最小。灶台边摆着一小盘锅贴，底煎得焦黄，是我昨天随口说了一句想吃锅贴，今天就真的有了。
早饭端到桌上，小米粥、煎蛋、锅贴、还有一小碟切好的山楂条。热气从粥碗里升上来，把我的眼镜片都弄模糊了。我平时一边吃一边背单词，那天我一个字都没背进去。
我在心里把谢谢排练了好几遍。第一遍声音太小，第二遍卡在嗓子眼，第三遍我趁我妈给我倒牛奶的时候说了出来，声音大得我自己都吓了一跳。
妈，谢谢你每天早起给我做饭。
我妈的手停在牛奶盒上，停了好几秒。然后她说：你这孩子，今天怎么了。她转过身去关火，其实火早就关了。
那天碗里的粥喝到最后还是温的。我妈给我留的煎蛋，蛋黄是溏心的，她知道自己孩子爱吃这个，我以前从没注意过。
后来那个五点五十的闹钟还在响，还是两三秒就停。不一样的是，有时候我比它起得早。我会先把饭盒放到门口，再回厨房帮我妈递个盘子。粥还是热的，锅贴不是天天有，但我妈现在会问我：今天早上想吃点什么。
The Alarm at Five Fifty
The moment the words Thank you, Mom left my mouth, the eyes of my mother went red. To explain that, I have to start with the alarm clock.
The phone of my mother has two alarms, one at five fifty and one at six. When the five fifty one rings, it stops after two or three seconds, as quiet as a mouth covered by a hand. I always thought it was set for the alarm at six, until one day I lost count of the date. It was Saturday, no school, yet I woke at one minute past five fifty, one minute before the alarm, and heard my mother already out of bed.
The five fifty alarm was set for my mother herself. She was afraid the ring at six would wake me, so every morning she silenced it ahead of time. I turned this secret over for a whole week, and the more I thought, the heavier my heart got.
That Saturday I could not stay in bed. I got up and went to the kitchen. The light was already on. Steam rose from the steamer, and my mother was lifting the fried eggs onto a plate, the range hood at its lowest whisper. By the stove sat a small plate of pan-fried dumplings, their bottoms golden and crisp. I had casually said the day before that I wanted some, and today there they really were.
Breakfast came to the table: millet congee, a fried egg, the dumplings, and a small dish of cut hawthorn strips. Steam climbed from the congee bowl and fogged my glasses. I usually recite words while eating, but that morning not one word entered my head.
I rehearsed the thank you in my heart several times. The first try was too small. The second stuck in my throat. The third came out while my mother poured my milk, so loud it startled even me.
Mom, thank you for getting up early every day to cook for me.
Her hand rested on the milk carton for several seconds. Then she said: What has come over you today. She turned to shut off the stove, though the stove had long been off.
The congee in my bowl stayed warm until the last spoonful. The egg my mother saved for me had a soft yolk, because she knew her child liked it that way, something I had never once noticed.
The five fifty alarm still rings now, still silenced in two or three seconds. What is different is that sometimes I rise before it. I set the lunch box by the door first, then go back to the kitchen to hand my mother a plate. The congee is still hot, the dumplings do not come every day, but now my mother asks me: what would you like this morning.
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