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散文佳作108篇 第85期:My Mother's Gift 母亲的礼物




My Mother's Gift


Suzanne Chazin

My Mother

I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my houseand in an age , not so long ago , when children could go home for lunch and find their motherswaiting.


At the time, I did not consider this a luxury, although today it certainly would be. I took it forgranted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and thehomework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had hada career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost everylunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.


I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would bestanding at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the onlyimportant thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.


Some sounds bring it all back: the highpitched squeal of my mother's teakettle, the rumble ofthe washing machine in the basement and the jangle of my dog's license tags as shebounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of thegerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.


One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to bethe princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lineswith me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage,every word disappeared from my head.


Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator's part to theplay, and asked me to switch roles. Her word, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I sawmy part go to another girl.


I didn't tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But shesensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked If I wanted towalk in the yard.


It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the hugeelm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painterhad touched our landscape with dabs of gold .I watched my mother casually bend down byone of the clumps. "I think I'm going to dig up all these weeds, "she said, yanking a blossomup by its roots. "From now on, we'll have only roses in this garden. "


"But I like dandelions, " I protested. "All flowers are beautiful-even dandelions. "


My mother looked at me seriously. "Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn't it?"She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over. "And that is true of peopletoo, " she added. "Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.


Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. Shelistened and smiled reassuringly.


"But you will be a beautiful narrator, " she said , reminding me of how much I loved to readstories aloud to her . "The narrator's part is every bit as important as the part of a princess. "


Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in therole. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking abut what I would wear.


Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, myteacher came over to me. "Your mother asked me to give this to you, " she said, handing me adandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But justlooking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made meproud .


After the play , I took home the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume . My motherpressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary , laughing as she did it that wewere perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed .


I often look back on our lunchtimes together , bathed in the soft midday light . They were thecommas in my childhood , the pauses that told me life is not savored in premeasuredincrement , but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we casually share with lovedones . Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies , I learned that love , firstand foremost , means being there for the little things .


A few months ago , my mother came to visit , I took off a day from work and treated her tolunch. The restaurant bustled with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glancedat their watches . In the middle of all this sat my mother , now retired , and I . From her face Icould see that she relished the pace of the work world .


"Mom , you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child , " I said .


"Bored? Housework is boring . But you were never boring . "


I didn't believe her , so I pressed . "Surely children are not as stimulating as a career. "


"A career is stimulating , " she said . "I'm glad I had one . But a career is like an open balloon.It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping . A child is a seed . You water it . You carefor it the best you can . And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower . "


Just then , looking at her , I could picture us sitting at her kitchen table once again , and Iunderstood why I kept that flaky brown dandelion in our old family dictionary pressed betweentwo crumpled bits of paper towel.


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