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 she remained aloof, watching from afar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the festivities would appeal to her. But nothing did.
We made cards and gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles and vied with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. "You put them in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch what happens inside. But you don't fry them too long or they break." So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students a little pouch for carrying their fried marbles. And I knew they had each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes pasted together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies, hand-fringed, of course.
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 when long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appear beside their trees at home. She lingered, watching them bundle up and go 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 with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightly soiled, as though it had been held many times by unwashed, childish hands. She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a weak smile. She said not a word, but nodded her head. 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 would never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. 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 then 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。
教室的一角装饰着一棵挂满金属箔和俗丽纸链的树。另一角则摆放着用纸板和海报颜料制作的马槽场景，出自一双双圆胖的、有时还脏兮兮的小手。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。即使你拉动一根线，这个蓝眼睛、金头发的娃娃会说“我叫苏西”，也无关紧要。“但耶稣是个男婴！”一个男孩大声说道。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奇迹——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，她始终疏离，远远地看着，仿佛相隔千里。我很好奇这个曾经那么快乐、如今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。
我们为爸爸妈妈、兄弟姐妹、祖父母以及彼此制作卡片和礼物。学生们在家里制作了当时流行的“油炸弹珠”，并争相带来最漂亮的那颗。“老师，你把它们放在热煎锅里。让它们变得非常热，然后你就能看到里面发生的变化。但不能煎太久，否则会裂开。”于是，作为给他们的礼物，我为每个学生做了一个小袋子来装他们的油炸弹珠。我知道他们每人都为我准备了东西：精心裁剪、上色，有时还粘贴在一起的书签；卡片和特别的画作；当然，还有手工镶边的液体刺绣小垫布。
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，带有白色蕾丝边。我非常想看到她的笑容。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那堵孤寂之墙。
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盛大日子，那时他们期盼已久的双轮自行车和闪亮的雪橇就会出现在家里的圣诞树旁。她徘徊着，看着他们裹好衣服走出门。我坐在一张儿童椅上喘口气，几乎没有意识到发生了什么，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，仿佛被一双双没洗过的、孩子气的手握过许多次。她什么也没说。“给我的吗？”我带着一丝勉强的微笑问道。她一言不发，只是点了点头。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闪发光的绿色油炸弹珠。
然后，我看着那张有着八岁年纪却显得老成的脸，看到了她深棕色眼睛里的疑问。刹那间我明白了——这是她为母亲做的，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，一位再也听不到她童稚的欢乐或悲伤的母亲。一位就在三周前结束了自己生命的母亲。
我递出项链。她用双手接过，向前探身，将简单的扣环扣在我颈后。然后她退后一步，仿佛要确认一切妥当。我低头看着那块闪亮的玻璃和失去光泽的金色链子，然后目光回到赠送者身上。我轻声说道，发自内心：“哦，玛丽亚，它太美了。她一定会喜欢的。”
我们俩都无法止住泪水。她跌跌撞撞地扑进我的怀里，我们一起哭泣。在那一刻，我成为了她的母亲，因为她给了我最伟大的礼物：她自己。