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双语阅读：Mother and child

发表时间：2011/6/30 16:54:56 来源：互联网点击关注微信：

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我拿起那条链子。她用双手接过它，向前探了探身，在我的脖子后把简易的项链钩系好。然后她向后退了几步，好像在看看是否合适。我低下头看着闪闪发亮的玻璃珠和已失去光泽的金色链子，然后抬起头望着她。我很认真地轻声说道：“哦，玛丽亚，这链子真漂亮。你妈妈一定会喜欢的。"我们已无法抑制住泪水。她踉踉跄跄地扑进我的怀里，我们都哭了。在那短暂的一刻我成了她的妈妈，而她送给了我一份最珍贵的礼物：她的信任和爱。

It was Christmas1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seventhird graders eagerly anticipated the great day of gifts giving.

A tree coveredwith tinsel and gaudy paper chains graced one corner. In another resteda manger scene produced from cardboard and poster paints by chubby, andsometimes grubby, hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it onthe straw in the cardboard box that served as the manger. It didn'tmatter that you could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed,golden-haired dolly say, "My name is Susie." "But Jesus was a boybaby!" one of the boys proclaimed. Nonetheless, Susie stayed.

Each day thechildren produced some new wonder -- strings of popcorn, hand-madetrinkets, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hungfrom the ceiling. Through it all she remained aloof, watching fromafar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quietchild, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped thefestivities would appeal to her. But nothing did. We made cards andgifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents,and for each other.

At home the students made the popular fried marblesand vied with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. " You putthem in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, andthen you watch what happens inside. But you don't fry them too long orthey break." So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students alittle pouch for carrying their fried marbles. And I knew they had eachmade something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimespasted together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies,hand-fringed, of course.

The day ofgift-giving finally came. We oohed and aahed over our handiwork as thepresents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. Ihad made a special pouch for her, red and green with white lace. Iwanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly andcarefully. I waited but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wallof isolation she had built around herself.

After school thechildren left in little groups, chattering about the great day yet tocome when long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appearbeside their trees at home. She lingered, watching them bundle up andgo out the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to catch my breath,hardly aware of what was happening, when she came to me withoutstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightlysoiled, as though it had been held many times by unwashed, childishhands.

She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a weak smile. She saidnot a word, but nodded her head. I took the box and gingerly opened it.There inside, glistening green, a fried marble hung from a goldenchain. Then I looked into that elderly eight-year-old face and saw thequestion in her dark brown eyes. In a flash I knew -- she had made itfor her mother, a mother she would never see again, a mother who wouldnever hold her or brush her hair or share a funny story, a mother whowould never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. A mother who hadtaken her own life just three weeks before.

I held out thechain. She took it in both her hands, reached forward, and secured thesimple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back then as if to seethat all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and thetarnished golden chain, then back at the giver. I meant it when Iwhispered," Oh, Maria, it is so beautiful. She would have loved it."Neither of us could stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and wewept together. And for that brief moment I became her mother, for shehad given me the greatest gift of all: herself.