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， Mafia， 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.
1961年的那個聖誕節，我在俄亥俄州的一個小鎮教學。我們三年級班裏的27個學生，都熱切地期待著互贈禮品的那個重大日子。
一棵掛著閃亮金絲和華麗彩紙的聖誕樹裝飾著教室一角，而另一角放著孩子們用胖乎乎、髒兮兮的小手把紙板塗上廣告色做成的馬槽。有人還把帶來的娃娃放在紙板槽的稻草上，以代表小耶穌。隻要輕輕拉一根小繩，你就會聽到這個金發碧眼的娃娃說：“我叫蘇茜。”但這些沒什麽關係。一個小男孩抗議說：“耶穌是男孩！”盡管如此，蘇茜還是留下來了。