雙語閱讀—說出心里話
閱讀 : 次
A Kindness Returned
真正的感激之情并不會隨著歲月的流逝而消失，而是如同當初一樣鮮活。文中的兩位母親，在生命的偶然邂逅中真誠地給予對方溫暖的慰藉，讓彼此受傷的心靈得到了撫慰，重新看到了美好的生活。
At the time my son was born in 1956, I shared a hospital room with a young woman who bore a son on the same day. Partly because my parents owned a shop selling flowers, the room was soon filled with the lovely scent of roses.
As the seventh floral arrangement was brought in, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for no flowers had arrived for my roommate, Ann. She sat on the edge of her bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet1. She was a pretty young woman, yet there was something about her large, brown eyes that made me think she had known too much struggling, too much sadness for one so young. I had the feeling she had always had to admire someone else’s flowers.
“I’m enjoying every minute of this”, she said as though she had read my thoughts and was trying to reassure me. “Wasn’t I the lucky one to get you for a roommate？”
I still felt uncomfortable, however. If only there were some magic button I could push to take away the sadness in her eyes. Well, I thought, at least I can see that she has some flowers. When my mother and father came to see me that day, I asked them to send her some.
The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing supper.
“Another bouquet for you,” she said, laughing.
“No, not this time,” I said, looking at the card. “These are for you.”
Ann stared at the blossoms a long time, not saying anything. She ran her fingers across the paleblue ceramic2 bootee and lightly touched each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside as though trying to engrave them on her memory.
“How can I ever thank you？” she said softly.
I was almost embarrassed. It was such a little kindness on my part. The son born to my husband and me that day in 1956 turned out to be our only child. For nearly 21 years he filled our lives with love and laughter, making us feel complete. But on Easter morning in April 1977, after a long, painful battle with cancer, he died quietly in our arms.
At the funeral home I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses, when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet. I didn’t read the card until later, as we rode to the cemetery. “To W. John Graves,” the card said, “from the boy who was born with you at Memorial Hospital, and his mother.”
Only then did I recognize the ceramic bootee I had given to a sad young woman so many years ago, now once again filled with roses. Ann and I had 1ong since lost touch. She had never known our son, never been aware of his illness. She must have read the notice of his death in a newspaper. I passed the card on to my mother sitting beside me. She, too, remembered.
“A kindness returned,” Mother said.
A few days later, my husband and I, with several members of our family, went to the cemetery to clear John’s grave. The bootee of roses sat at its foot, towered over by tall wreaths3 and sprays.
“How strange that anyone would send something like that to a funeral,” someone said. “It seems more appropriate for a birth.”
“There was a birth,” said my husband quietly. “John was born into Eternal Life.” I looked at him with surprise, knowing those words were difficult for a man who had never spoken openly about such matters.
He emptied out the flowers and handed me the ceramic bootee. I held it and, just as Ann had done, I traced it with my fingers, thinking of all the messages it contained: the embers of friendship that glow through the years, gratitude remembered and, beneath it all, the promise of resurrection, which comforts us now.
1956年，兒子出生時，我與一位年輕女子共住一間病房，那天，她也生了一個兒子。也許是因為我的父母開花店的緣故吧，我們的病房很快就充滿了玫瑰花的馨香。
當我第七次收到花束時，我開始不安起來，因為和我同住一屋的安從沒收到過。她坐在床邊，身子前傾著，欣賞剛剛送來的鮮花。她是個漂亮的少婦，但是，那雙褐色的大眼睛里總閃爍著憂郁，讓我覺得她經歷了太多的人生苦難，年輕的生命有著太多的憂傷，似乎總是只能欣賞別人的花束。
“我在這里一直很愉快，”她似乎看出了我的心思，想讓我放心，“我能和你住在一起，不是很幸運嗎？”
不過，我仍覺得有些不安，要是能有一種神奇的按鈕，一按就能解除她眼中的憂傷就好了。哦，我想，至少我能讓她擁有一些鮮花。那天，父母再來看望我時，我便要他們送安一些花。
我和安剛吃完晚飯，鮮花就送來了。
“又給你送花來了。”她笑著說。
“不，這次不是，”我看著卡片說，“這是給你的！”
良久，安凝視著鮮花，用手指輕輕撫摸著淺藍色的靴形瓷瓶，又溫柔地觸摸插在瓶中的每一朵嬌艷欲滴的玫瑰花，似乎想把這一切深深地銘刻在記憶中。
“我該怎么感謝你呢？”她輕聲說道。
我有些局促不安。這只是我的一點點善意而已。1956年出生的兒子成了我們夫婦的獨生子。近21年來，他用愛和歡笑充實了我們的生活，讓我們感到心滿意足。但是，1977年4月復活節的那個早晨，在與癌癥進行了漫長而痛苦地搏斗后，他靜靜地死在我們懷里。
殯儀館內，我單獨與兒子待在一間彌漫著玫瑰花香的屋里。郵遞員送來了一小束鮮花，直到后來，我們乘車去公墓的路上，我才看到卡片：“獻給約翰 格雷夫斯——與你同天出生在紀念醫院的孩子和他的母親謹上。”
這時，我才認出這個靴形瓷瓶是很多年前我送給一位憂郁的年輕女子的。如今它再一次插滿了玫瑰。我和安很早以前就失去了聯系。她根本不認識我們的兒子，也不知道他得病。她一定是在報紙上看到訃告了，媽媽坐在我身邊，我把卡片遞給她，她也想起來了。
“這是一種友好的報答。”媽媽說。
幾天后，我和丈夫以及家人去公墓給約翰掃墓。那瓶玫瑰還在高高的花圈和枝丫上放著。
“真奇怪，誰會送這些東西作為葬禮，”有人說道，“它看上去像是祝賀新生的。”
“它是祝賀新生的，”丈夫靜靜地說，“約翰誕生在永恒的國度了。”我驚訝地看著他，我知道，他從不坦率談及此事，說出這話很不容易。
他拿出鮮花，遞給我那個靴形瓷瓶，我捧著它，就像當年安所做的那樣，撫摸著它，思索著它所蘊涵的種種意義，我想，友誼并未隨著歲月的流逝而消失；我想起記憶長河中的感激之情；還有更為重要的——新生的希望。此時正是這些在慰藉我們的心靈。
本文標題：雙語閱讀—說出心里話 - 英語短文_英語美文_英文美文真正的感激之情并不會隨著歲月的流逝而消失，而是如同當初一樣鮮活。文中的兩位母親，在生命的偶然邂逅中真誠地給予對方溫暖的慰藉，讓彼此受傷的心靈得到了撫慰，重新看到了美好的生活。
At the time my son was born in 1956, I shared a hospital room with a young woman who bore a son on the same day. Partly because my parents owned a shop selling flowers, the room was soon filled with the lovely scent of roses.
As the seventh floral arrangement was brought in, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for no flowers had arrived for my roommate, Ann. She sat on the edge of her bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet1. She was a pretty young woman, yet there was something about her large, brown eyes that made me think she had known too much struggling, too much sadness for one so young. I had the feeling she had always had to admire someone else’s flowers.
“I’m enjoying every minute of this”, she said as though she had read my thoughts and was trying to reassure me. “Wasn’t I the lucky one to get you for a roommate？”
I still felt uncomfortable, however. If only there were some magic button I could push to take away the sadness in her eyes. Well, I thought, at least I can see that she has some flowers. When my mother and father came to see me that day, I asked them to send her some.
The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing supper.
“Another bouquet for you,” she said, laughing.
“No, not this time,” I said, looking at the card. “These are for you.”
Ann stared at the blossoms a long time, not saying anything. She ran her fingers across the paleblue ceramic2 bootee and lightly touched each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside as though trying to engrave them on her memory.
“How can I ever thank you？” she said softly.
I was almost embarrassed. It was such a little kindness on my part. The son born to my husband and me that day in 1956 turned out to be our only child. For nearly 21 years he filled our lives with love and laughter, making us feel complete. But on Easter morning in April 1977, after a long, painful battle with cancer, he died quietly in our arms.
At the funeral home I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses, when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet. I didn’t read the card until later, as we rode to the cemetery. “To W. John Graves,” the card said, “from the boy who was born with you at Memorial Hospital, and his mother.”
Only then did I recognize the ceramic bootee I had given to a sad young woman so many years ago, now once again filled with roses. Ann and I had 1ong since lost touch. She had never known our son, never been aware of his illness. She must have read the notice of his death in a newspaper. I passed the card on to my mother sitting beside me. She, too, remembered.
“A kindness returned,” Mother said.
A few days later, my husband and I, with several members of our family, went to the cemetery to clear John’s grave. The bootee of roses sat at its foot, towered over by tall wreaths3 and sprays.
“How strange that anyone would send something like that to a funeral,” someone said. “It seems more appropriate for a birth.”
“There was a birth,” said my husband quietly. “John was born into Eternal Life.” I looked at him with surprise, knowing those words were difficult for a man who had never spoken openly about such matters.
He emptied out the flowers and handed me the ceramic bootee. I held it and, just as Ann had done, I traced it with my fingers, thinking of all the messages it contained: the embers of friendship that glow through the years, gratitude remembered and, beneath it all, the promise of resurrection, which comforts us now.
1956年，兒子出生時，我與一位年輕女子共住一間病房，那天，她也生了一個兒子。也許是因為我的父母開花店的緣故吧，我們的病房很快就充滿了玫瑰花的馨香。
當我第七次收到花束時，我開始不安起來，因為和我同住一屋的安從沒收到過。她坐在床邊，身子前傾著，欣賞剛剛送來的鮮花。她是個漂亮的少婦，但是，那雙褐色的大眼睛里總閃爍著憂郁，讓我覺得她經歷了太多的人生苦難，年輕的生命有著太多的憂傷，似乎總是只能欣賞別人的花束。
“我在這里一直很愉快，”她似乎看出了我的心思，想讓我放心，“我能和你住在一起，不是很幸運嗎？”
不過，我仍覺得有些不安，要是能有一種神奇的按鈕，一按就能解除她眼中的憂傷就好了。哦，我想，至少我能讓她擁有一些鮮花。那天，父母再來看望我時，我便要他們送安一些花。
我和安剛吃完晚飯，鮮花就送來了。
“又給你送花來了。”她笑著說。
“不，這次不是，”我看著卡片說，“這是給你的！”
良久，安凝視著鮮花，用手指輕輕撫摸著淺藍色的靴形瓷瓶，又溫柔地觸摸插在瓶中的每一朵嬌艷欲滴的玫瑰花，似乎想把這一切深深地銘刻在記憶中。
“我該怎么感謝你呢？”她輕聲說道。
我有些局促不安。這只是我的一點點善意而已。1956年出生的兒子成了我們夫婦的獨生子。近21年來，他用愛和歡笑充實了我們的生活，讓我們感到心滿意足。但是，1977年4月復活節的那個早晨，在與癌癥進行了漫長而痛苦地搏斗后，他靜靜地死在我們懷里。
殯儀館內，我單獨與兒子待在一間彌漫著玫瑰花香的屋里。郵遞員送來了一小束鮮花，直到后來，我們乘車去公墓的路上，我才看到卡片：“獻給約翰 格雷夫斯——與你同天出生在紀念醫院的孩子和他的母親謹上。”
這時，我才認出這個靴形瓷瓶是很多年前我送給一位憂郁的年輕女子的。如今它再一次插滿了玫瑰。我和安很早以前就失去了聯系。她根本不認識我們的兒子，也不知道他得病。她一定是在報紙上看到訃告了，媽媽坐在我身邊，我把卡片遞給她，她也想起來了。
“這是一種友好的報答。”媽媽說。
幾天后，我和丈夫以及家人去公墓給約翰掃墓。那瓶玫瑰還在高高的花圈和枝丫上放著。
“真奇怪，誰會送這些東西作為葬禮，”有人說道，“它看上去像是祝賀新生的。”
“它是祝賀新生的，”丈夫靜靜地說，“約翰誕生在永恒的國度了。”我驚訝地看著他，我知道，他從不坦率談及此事，說出這話很不容易。
他拿出鮮花，遞給我那個靴形瓷瓶，我捧著它，就像當年安所做的那樣，撫摸著它，思索著它所蘊涵的種種意義，我想，友誼并未隨著歲月的流逝而消失；我想起記憶長河中的感激之情；還有更為重要的——新生的希望。此時正是這些在慰藉我們的心靈。
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