English Original
It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third graders eagerly anticipated the great day of gift-giving.
A tree covered with tinsel and gaudy paper chains graced one corner. In another rested a manger scene produced from cardboard and poster paints by chubby, and sometimes grubby, hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it on the straw in the cardboard box that served as the manger. It didn't matter that you could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed, golden-haired dolly say, "My name is Susie." "But Jesus was a boy baby!" one of the boys proclaimed. Nonetheless, Susie stayed.
Each day the children produced some new wonder -- strings of popcorn, hand-made trinkets, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung from the ceiling. Through it all, one girl remained aloof, watching from afar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what had happened to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the festivities would appeal to her. But nothing did.
The day of gift-giving finally came. We oohed and aahed over our handiwork as the presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I had made a special pouch for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited, but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wall of isolation she had built around herself.
After school, the children left in little groups, chattering about the great day yet to come. She lingered, watching them go. I sat down in a child-sized chair to catch my breath when she came to me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightly soiled. She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a weak smile. She nodded. I took the box and gingerly opened it. There inside, glistening green, a fried marble hung from a golden chain.
Then I looked into that elderly eight-year-old face and saw the question in her dark brown eyes. In a flash I knew -- she had made it for her mother, a mother she would never see again, a mother who would never hold her or brush her hair or share a funny story. A mother who had taken her own life just three weeks before.
I held out the chain. She took it in both her hands, reached forward, and secured the simple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back as if to see that all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and the tarnished golden chain, then back at the giver. I meant it when I whispered, "Oh, Maria, it is so beautiful. She would have loved it."
Neither of us could stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and we wept together. And for that brief moment, I became her mother, for she had given me the greatest gift of all: herself.
中文翻译
那是1961年的圣诞节。我在俄亥俄州的一个小镇教书，班上的27名三年级学生正热切地期待着互赠礼物的盛大日子。
教室一角装饰着一棵挂满金属丝和俗丽纸链的树。另一角摆放着一个用纸板和海报颜料制作的马槽场景，出自孩子们胖乎乎、有时脏兮兮的小手。有人带来了一个娃娃，把它放在充当马槽的纸板箱里的稻草上。即使你能拉一下绳子，听到那个蓝眼睛、金头发的娃娃说“我叫苏西”，也没关系。“但耶稣是个男婴！”一个男孩宣称。尽管如此，苏西还是留了下来。
每天，孩子们都会创造出一些新的惊喜——爆米花串、手工小饰品，还有用墙纸样品做的德国铃铛，我们把它们挂在天花板上。在整个过程中，有一个女孩始终疏离，远远地看着，仿佛相隔千里。我想知道这个曾经那么快乐、现在却突然变得沉默寡言的孩子身上发生了什么。我希望节日的欢乐能吸引她，但什么也没有。
互送礼物的日子终于到了。交换礼物时，我们对自己的手工作品发出阵阵惊叹。而她始终安静地坐着观看。我为她做了一个特别的袋子，红绿相间，带有白色蕾丝。我非常想看到她的微笑。她非常缓慢而小心地打开包装。我等待着，但她却转过身去。我未能穿透她为自己筑起的孤独之墙。
放学后，孩子们三五成群地离开，叽叽喳喳地谈论着即将到来的美好日子。她徘徊着，看着他们离开。我坐在一张儿童椅上喘口气，这时她向我走来，伸出双手，拿着一个没有包装、略显脏污的白色小盒子。她什么也没说。“给我的吗？”我带着一丝无力的微笑问道。她点了点头。我接过盒子，小心翼翼地打开。里面，一条金色的链子上挂着一颗闪亮的绿色油炸玻璃珠。
然后，我看着那张早熟的八岁脸庞，在她深棕色的眼睛里看到了疑问。刹那间，我明白了——这是她为母亲做的礼物，一位她再也见不到的母亲，一位再也不能拥抱她、为她梳头、分享有趣故事的母亲。一位就在三周前结束了自己生命的母亲。
我拿出项链。她用双手接过，向前倾身，将简单的搭扣扣在我颈后。她退后一步，仿佛要确认一切妥当。我低头看了看闪亮的玻璃珠和失去光泽的金链，又抬头看向赠予者。我轻声说：“哦，玛丽亚，它太美了。她一定会喜欢的。”我是真心的。
我们都无法止住泪水。她跌入我的怀抱，我们一起哭泣。在那一刻，我成为了她的母亲，因为她给了我最珍贵的礼物：她自己。