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The best Mother’s Day gift I ever received was a magnolia tree. At first, it was a droopy1 little thing reminding me of the tree Charlie Brown selected at Christmas—but it was mine, and I knew I would treasure it.
Magnolia trees, you see, were my mother’s favorite. We had one in the front yard of our house when I was growing up. I can still remember Mom’s pleasure upon seeing the buds. “Oh, look,” she’d exclaim every year, “the magnolia tree is going to bloom—just in time for my birthday.” And sure enough, on April 19, her birthday, the graceful2 pink-and-white flowers would be all over the branches, announcing the arrival of spring.
Back then, I didn’t find the blooming of a tree to be an event worthy of celebration. A new toy, a pretty dress or a trip to the amusement park — those were exciting. But my mother had a way of appreciating the smallest things as miracles. A baby’s smile, the fragrance3 of lilacs or a call from an old friend filled her with happiness.
On the first Mother’s Day following her death six years ago, I wasn’t sure how I’d cope. Reminders of my mother’s absence seemed to be everywhere. At the mall, a wall of Mother’s Day cards greeted me; in the newspaper, ads for brunch and gifts adorned4 the page; at the schoolyard, the other parents discussed plans for a family weekend. It all reminded me of my mother, who’d died only four months before. I envisioned5 a day spent wiping tears from my eyes and feeling sorry for myself.
That Sunday morning I awoke to a quiet house, with warm sun streaming through the windows. I wondered where my husband had gone with our two daughters, Kira, 4, and Sophie, 9 months. As I was relaxing in bed, enjoying the peace, Kira suddenly burst through the bedroom door.
“Look outside, Mommy!” she ordered. There, in the yard, David was digging a hole. Next to him was a fragile6 little tree whose roots were wrapped in burlap. “It’s a magnolia tree,” Kira said, though I didn’t need to be told. I raised the window and called out to David. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he said.
It was. Although I didn’t have my mother any longer, I had her tree, and each year since, I’ve had her enthusiasm7. Now when we pull up to our house on a bright spring day, I say to my daughters, “Oh, look, the magnolia’s about to bloom.” And when it does, we admire its beauty and use it as a chance to talk about my mother and her love for flowers. These moments help keep her spirit every much alive.
By the time Mother’s Day arrives, the petals have usually fallen from the branches and the tree sits in the yard with just its green leaves. But each year it has become stronger and sturdier8, just as I have. And instead of a day to miss my mother, Mother’s Day has become a time to celebrate the fact that I am a mother, teaching my daughters the very things that my mother taught me: To appreciate the small things that make life so beautiful.
母亲节那天我收到的最好礼物要数那棵木兰树了。小树最初有点蔫，这使我想起查理·布朗在圣诞节选的那棵树。不过，这棵却是我的，我知道，我会好好珍惜它的。
木兰树其实是我母亲的至爱。我童年时，前院就种着一棵，我还记得母亲看到它发芽时的那种喜悦之情。她每年都会感慨：“看呐，木兰树就要开花了！正好赶上我的生日。”准是在4月19日她生日这一天，粉红嫩白、优雅的木兰便会开满枝头，宣告春天的到来。
那时我觉得一棵树绽开几朵花没什么值得庆祝的，反倒是得到一个新玩具、一件漂亮衣服，或者上趟游乐园更能使我开心。但母亲却有一种能把这些最细微的事情当做奇迹的方法，如一个婴儿的微笑、紫丁香的芬芳，或者老友的一个电话，这些都能让她心花怒放。
六年前她去世了，之后的第一个母亲节，我简直无所适从，感到母亲无所不在。商店里映入眼帘的是满墙的母亲节贺卡；报纸上，整版都是午餐与礼物的广告；校园里，别人的父母在一起计划着如何同家人一起过周末……这些都使我想起四个月前去世的母亲。为此，我想象着有一天我一定会泪眼婆娑，为自己唏嘘不已。
那个星期天早上，我一觉醒来，屋子里静悄悄的，温暖的阳光透过窗户照进屋来。我慵懒地躺在床上，一边惬意地享受着这番宁静，一边纳闷着丈夫和两个女儿——4岁的吉拉和9个月大的索菲雅——上哪儿去了。突然，吉拉闯进卧室。
“妈妈，看外面！”她喊道。院子里，大卫正在挖坑，身边是一棵脆弱的小树，树根用粗麻布裹着。“是棵木兰树。”吉拉说。其实不用她说我也知道。我拉起窗户，叫大卫。大卫说：“母亲节快乐！”
我真的很快乐！尽管母亲已不在人世，但这些年有她的木兰树陪伴着我，我还继承了她的热情。现在春光明媚，我们走到屋外，我对女儿们说：“快看，木兰树要开花了。”花开时分，我们便会一起赞叹它的妩媚，顺便谈起母亲及她对花儿的挚爱。每每这个时候，她的精神似乎又真的复活了。
母亲节来临时，花瓣会从树枝上飘落下来，院子里的树就剩下绿油油的叶子。可是，它却和我一样一年比一年坚强。我在母亲节不再思念母亲，而是庆祝自己成为一个母亲。我以母亲教育我的方式教育着自己的女儿：对使我们的生命变得如此美好的细微之事心存感激……
晓枫 摘译自Short Stories
Magnolia trees, you see, were my mother’s favorite. We had one in the front yard of our house when I was growing up. I can still remember Mom’s pleasure upon seeing the buds. “Oh, look,” she’d exclaim every year, “the magnolia tree is going to bloom—just in time for my birthday.” And sure enough, on April 19, her birthday, the graceful2 pink-and-white flowers would be all over the branches, announcing the arrival of spring.
Back then, I didn’t find the blooming of a tree to be an event worthy of celebration. A new toy, a pretty dress or a trip to the amusement park — those were exciting. But my mother had a way of appreciating the smallest things as miracles. A baby’s smile, the fragrance3 of lilacs or a call from an old friend filled her with happiness.
On the first Mother’s Day following her death six years ago, I wasn’t sure how I’d cope. Reminders of my mother’s absence seemed to be everywhere. At the mall, a wall of Mother’s Day cards greeted me; in the newspaper, ads for brunch and gifts adorned4 the page; at the schoolyard, the other parents discussed plans for a family weekend. It all reminded me of my mother, who’d died only four months before. I envisioned5 a day spent wiping tears from my eyes and feeling sorry for myself.
That Sunday morning I awoke to a quiet house, with warm sun streaming through the windows. I wondered where my husband had gone with our two daughters, Kira, 4, and Sophie, 9 months. As I was relaxing in bed, enjoying the peace, Kira suddenly burst through the bedroom door.
“Look outside, Mommy!” she ordered. There, in the yard, David was digging a hole. Next to him was a fragile6 little tree whose roots were wrapped in burlap. “It’s a magnolia tree,” Kira said, though I didn’t need to be told. I raised the window and called out to David. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he said.
It was. Although I didn’t have my mother any longer, I had her tree, and each year since, I’ve had her enthusiasm7. Now when we pull up to our house on a bright spring day, I say to my daughters, “Oh, look, the magnolia’s about to bloom.” And when it does, we admire its beauty and use it as a chance to talk about my mother and her love for flowers. These moments help keep her spirit every much alive.
By the time Mother’s Day arrives, the petals have usually fallen from the branches and the tree sits in the yard with just its green leaves. But each year it has become stronger and sturdier8, just as I have. And instead of a day to miss my mother, Mother’s Day has become a time to celebrate the fact that I am a mother, teaching my daughters the very things that my mother taught me: To appreciate the small things that make life so beautiful.
母亲节那天我收到的最好礼物要数那棵木兰树了。小树最初有点蔫，这使我想起查理·布朗在圣诞节选的那棵树。不过，这棵却是我的，我知道，我会好好珍惜它的。
木兰树其实是我母亲的至爱。我童年时，前院就种着一棵，我还记得母亲看到它发芽时的那种喜悦之情。她每年都会感慨：“看呐，木兰树就要开花了！正好赶上我的生日。”准是在4月19日她生日这一天，粉红嫩白、优雅的木兰便会开满枝头，宣告春天的到来。
那时我觉得一棵树绽开几朵花没什么值得庆祝的，反倒是得到一个新玩具、一件漂亮衣服，或者上趟游乐园更能使我开心。但母亲却有一种能把这些最细微的事情当做奇迹的方法，如一个婴儿的微笑、紫丁香的芬芳，或者老友的一个电话，这些都能让她心花怒放。
六年前她去世了，之后的第一个母亲节，我简直无所适从，感到母亲无所不在。商店里映入眼帘的是满墙的母亲节贺卡；报纸上，整版都是午餐与礼物的广告；校园里，别人的父母在一起计划着如何同家人一起过周末……这些都使我想起四个月前去世的母亲。为此，我想象着有一天我一定会泪眼婆娑，为自己唏嘘不已。
那个星期天早上，我一觉醒来，屋子里静悄悄的，温暖的阳光透过窗户照进屋来。我慵懒地躺在床上，一边惬意地享受着这番宁静，一边纳闷着丈夫和两个女儿——4岁的吉拉和9个月大的索菲雅——上哪儿去了。突然，吉拉闯进卧室。
“妈妈，看外面！”她喊道。院子里，大卫正在挖坑，身边是一棵脆弱的小树，树根用粗麻布裹着。“是棵木兰树。”吉拉说。其实不用她说我也知道。我拉起窗户，叫大卫。大卫说：“母亲节快乐！”
我真的很快乐！尽管母亲已不在人世，但这些年有她的木兰树陪伴着我，我还继承了她的热情。现在春光明媚，我们走到屋外，我对女儿们说：“快看，木兰树要开花了。”花开时分，我们便会一起赞叹它的妩媚，顺便谈起母亲及她对花儿的挚爱。每每这个时候，她的精神似乎又真的复活了。
母亲节来临时，花瓣会从树枝上飘落下来，院子里的树就剩下绿油油的叶子。可是，它却和我一样一年比一年坚强。我在母亲节不再思念母亲，而是庆祝自己成为一个母亲。我以母亲教育我的方式教育着自己的女儿：对使我们的生命变得如此美好的细微之事心存感激……
晓枫 摘译自Short Stories