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d sticky spoons。 I can't forget the smell。 Like sticky capsules filled with jelly。 My aunt； a little oyster； a little piece of meat on an open shell for us to look at。 Hello； hello。 As if she had fallen into a well。
I took my library books to her house。 I read her stories。 I liked the book The Water Babies。 She liked it too。 I never knew how sick she was until that day I tried to show her one of the pictures in the book； a beautiful color picture of the water babies swimming in the sea。 I held the book up to her face。 I can't see it； she said； I'm blind。 And then I was ashamed。
She listened to every book； every poem I read her。 one day I read her one of my own。 I came very close。 I whispered it into the pillow：
生辰不吉（3）
I want to be
like the waves on the sea；
like the clouds in the wind；
but I'm me。
One day I'll jump
out of my skin。
I'll shake the sky
like a hundred violins。
That's nice。 That's very good； she said in her tired voice。 You just remember to keep writing； Esperanza。 You must keep writing。 It will keep you free； and I said yes； but at that time I didn't know what she meant。
The day we played the game； we didn't know she was going to die。 We pretended with our heads thrown back； our arms limp and useless； dangling like the dead。 We laughed the way she did。 We talked the way she talked； the way blind people talk without moving their head。 We imitated the way you had to lift her head a little so she could drink water； she sucked it up slow out of a green tin cup。 The water was warm and tasted like metal。 Lucy laughed。 Rachel too。 We took turns being her。 We screamed in the weak voice of a parrot for Totchy to e and wash those dishes。 It was easy。
We didn't know。 She had been dying such a long time； we forgot。 Maybe she was ashamed。 Maybe she was embarrassed it took so many years。 The kids who wanted to be kids instead of washing dishes and ironing their papa's shirts； and the husband who wanted a wife again。
And then she died； my aunt who listened to my poems。
And then we began to dream the dreams。
阁楼上的流浪者
我想要一所山上的房子，像爸爸工作的地方那样的花园房。星期日，爸爸的休息日，我们会去那里。我过去常去。现在不去了。你长大了，就不喜欢和我们一起出去吗？爸爸说。你傲起来了。蕾妮说。我没告诉他们我很羞愧——我们一帮人全都盯着那里的窗户，像饥饿的人。我厌倦了盯着我不能拥有的东西。如果我们赢了彩票……妈妈才开口，我就不要听了。
那些住在山上、睡得靠星星如此近的人，他们忘记了我们这些住在地面上的人。他们根本不朝下看，除非为了体会住在山上的心满意足。上星期的垃圾，对老鼠的恐惧，这些与他们无关。夜晚来临，没什么惊扰他们的梦，除了风。
有一天我要拥有自己的房子，可我不会忘记我是谁我从哪里来。路过的流浪者会问，我可以进来吗？我会把他们领上阁楼，请他们住下来，因为我知道没有房子的滋味。
有些日子里，晚饭后，我和朋友们坐在火旁。楼上的地板吱呀吱呀响。阁楼上有咕咕哝哝的声音。
是老鼠吗？他们会问。
是流浪者。我会回答说。我很开心。
Bums in the Attic
I want a house on a hill like the ones with the gardens where Papa works。 We go on Sundays； Papa's day off。 I used to go。 I don't anymore。 You don't like to go out with us； Papa says。 Getting too old？ Getting too stuck…up； says Nenny。 I don't tell them I am ashamed……all of us staring out the window like the hungry。 I am tired of looking at what we can't have。 When we win the lottery。。。Mama begins； and then I stop listening。
People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth。 They don't look down at all except to be content to live on hills。 They have nothing to do with last week's garbage or fear of rats。 Night es。 Nothing wakes them but the wind。
One day I'll own my own house； but I won't forget who I am or where I came from。 Passing bums will ask； Can I e in？ I'll offer them the attic； ask them to stay； because I know how it is to be without a house。
Some days after dinner； guests and I will sit in front of a fire。 Floorboards will squeak upstairs。 The attic grumble。
Rats？ they'll ask。
Bums； I'll say； and I'll be happy。
芒果有时说再见
我喜欢讲故事。我在心里讲述。在邮递员说过这是你的邮件之后。这是你的邮件。他说。然后我开始讲述。
我编了一个故事，为我的生活，为我棕色鞋子走过的每一步。我说，“她步履沉重地登上木楼梯，她悲哀的棕色鞋子带着她走进了她从来不喜欢的房子。”
我喜欢讲故事。我将向你们讲述一个不想归属的女孩的故事。
我们先前不住芒果街。先前我们住鲁米斯的三楼，再先前我们住吉勒。吉勒前面是波琳娜。可我记得最清楚的是芒果街，悲哀的红色小屋。我住在那里却不属于那里的房子。
我把它写在纸上，然后心里的幽灵就不那么疼了。我把它写下来，芒果有时说再见。她不再用双臂抱住我。她放开了我。
有一天我会把一袋袋的书和纸打进包里。有一天我会对芒果说再见。我强大得她没法永远留住我。有一天我会离开。
朋友和邻居们会说，埃斯佩朗莎怎么了？她带着这么多书和纸去哪里？为什么她要走得那么远？
他们不会知道，我离开是为了回来。为了那些我留在身后的人。为了那些无法出去的人。
Mango Says Goodbye Sometimes
I like to tell stories。 I tell them inside my head。 I tell them after the mailman says； Here's your mail。 Here's your mail he said。
I make a story for my life； for each step my brown shoe takes。 I say； 〃And so she trudged up the wooden stairs； her sad brown shoes taking her to the house she never
liked。〃
I like to tell stories。 I am going to tell you a story about a girl who didn't want to belong。
We didn't always live on Mango Street。 Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor； and before that we lived on Keeler。 Before Keeler it was Paulina； but what I remember most is Mango Street； sad red house； the house I belong but do not belong to。
I put it down on paper and then the ghost does not ache so much。 I write it down and Mango says goodbye sometimes。 She does not hold me with both arms。 She sets me free。
One day I will pack my bags of books and paper。 One day I will say goodbye to Mango。 I am too strong for her to keep me here forever。 One day I will go away。
Friends and neighbors will say； What happened to that Esperanza？ Where did she go with all those books and paper？ Why did she march so far away？
They will not know I have gone away to e back。 For the ones I left behind。 For the ones who cannot out。