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 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 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 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 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 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.