佚名 /Anonymous
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 f lowers, the room was soon f illed with the lovely scent of roses.
As the seventh f loral arrangement was brought in, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for no f lowers had arrived for my roommate, Ann. She sat on the edge of her bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet. 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 f lowers.
“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 f lowers. When my mother and father came to see me that day, I asked them to send her some.
The f lowers arrived just as Ann and I were f inishing 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 f ingers across the pale-blue ceramic 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 f illed 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.