The powerboat picked us up and headed to higher ground. It began to rain, and for the first time I was really afraid. The water might rise forever, might cover the whole valley, the trees, even the hills.

　　 By the time we were settled in a Red Cross tent, we were worn out. Father had gone off to care for sick people, and Mother sat on my cot with her arm around my shoulder. She smiled at me, if you can call it that. Then I reached under my pillow and took out the gravy boat.

　　 She looked at it, then at me. Then she took it in her hands and held it for a long time. She was very quiet, just sitting, gazing at the gravy boat. She seemed both close to me and also very far away, as though she was remembering. I don't know what she was thinking, but she pulled me into her arms and held me tight.

　　 We lived in the tent for weeks, cold and often hungry. As the flood crested, an oil slick caught fire and burned our house down to the waterline. We never went back. Instead, we moved to a house near Cincinnati, far from the river.

　　 By Easter we were settled in, and we celebrated that special Sunday with a feast. While Dad carved the lamb, Mother went into the kitchen and returned with the gravy boat. She held my gift for a moment as though it was something unspeakably precious. Then, smiling at me, she placed it gently on the table. I said to myself right then that nothing would ever happen to that gravy boat as long as I lived.

　　 And nothing ever has. Now I use the gravy boat just as she had, taking it carefully from the shelf and filling it just as she did with dark, rich turkey gravy for family dinners and other special occasions. When guests ask about the curious old dish, I sometimes tell the story of how I fished it from the river in our house.

　　 But beyond the events of the flood, the gravy boat is a treasure that connects me to the people and the places of my past. Mother tried to explain, and now I understand. It is not the object so much as the connection that I cherish. That little porcelain boat, chipped and worn with age, keeps me in touch――just as she said it would――with her life, her joy and her love.

　　汽艇帶上我們往高地方向駛去。天又開始下雨，我第一次真正感到了害怕。河水也許會漲個沒完，淹沒整個山谷、樹林甚至山丘。

　　我們在紅十字會的帳篷里安頓下來，全都精疲力竭。爸爸照看病人去了；媽媽坐在我的帆布床上，摟著我的肩頭。她對著我微笑――如果那能稱為微笑的話。這當兒，我把手伸到枕頭下面，拿出了那只船形肉鹵盤。

　　她先看了看盤子，然后看著我。接著她把盤子拿過去握了很久。她十分平靜，就那樣坐著，凝視著這件珍品。她離我很近，卻又仿佛非常遙遠，好像陷入了某種回憶。我不知道她在想什么，但她將我擁入懷里，緊緊地抱著。

　　我們在帳篷里住了幾個星期，常常忍饑耐寒。洪峰到來時，水面上的一層油膜不幸著火，把我家的房子吃水線以上部分全部燒塌。我們再也沒有回去，而是舉家遷往離河很遠的辛辛那提附近的另一幢房子。

　　復活節那天，我們住進了新家，舉行盛宴慶祝那個特別的星期日。趁爸爸在切羊肉，媽媽走進廚房拿出那只船形肉鹵盤。好一陣子，她捧著我的這份禮物，仿佛這是一件無法用言語形容的最寶貴的器皿。然后，她一邊微笑著望著我，一邊輕輕地將盤子放到餐桌上。就在那時我對自己說，只要我活著，我決不會再讓這只盤子出事。

　　的確上直沒有出事。如今我就像媽媽當年一樣使用著這只盤子，小心翼翼地從碗柜的擱板上拿下來，在家庭晚宴上和其他特別的節日里盛上黑色而肥美的火雞肉汁。當有客人問起這只奇特而古老的盤子時，我偶爾也會講講這個故事，告訴他們我是如何從淹入我家的河水里撈出來的。

　　但是除了那場洪水的經歷之外，這只船形肉鹵盤還是一件將我同我過去的親人和住處緊密相聯的珍奇之物。媽媽曾努力解釋過這一點，如今我真正感悟到了。我珍惜的與其說是這件器皿本身，還不如說是通過它而建立起來的那種聯系。這只小小的船形瓷器，年深日久，傷痕累累，卻將我同媽媽的人生、媽媽的歡樂和媽媽的慈愛永遠相聯――正如她曾經說過的那樣。

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