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 gifts giving.
那是1961年的圣诞节。我在俄亥俄州的一个小镇上教小学三年级。班上27个孩子都在热切盼望着这个互赠礼品、激动人心的日子到来。
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 I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn.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.
每天孩子们都会做点儿新玩意——爆米花串成的细链子、手工做的小装饰品和墙纸做的德国式风铃，我们把这些风铃挂在了天花板上。但自始至终，她都是孤零零地远远观望，仿佛是隔了一道几里长的障碍。我猜想着这个安静的孩子发生了什么事，原先是那么快乐，怎么突然变得沉默寡言起来。我希望节日的活动能吸引她，可还是无济于事。
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.
赠送礼物的那天终于到了。在交换礼物时我们为对方亲手做的小礼品不停地欢呼叫好。而整个过程中，她只是安静地坐在那儿看着。我为她做的小袋很特别，红绿相间还镶着白边。我非常想看到她笑一笑。她打开包装，动作又慢又小心。我等待着，但是她却转过了身。
After school the children left in little groups, but she lingered, watching them go out the door. I sat down 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. "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, lay a golden chain. 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 sharre 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.