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年的圣誕節。我在俄亥俄州的一個小鎮上教小學三年級。班上27個孩子都在熱切盼望著這個互贈禮品、激動人心的日子到來。

　　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 I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn.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.

　　每天孩子們都會做點兒新玩意——爆米花串成的細鏈子、手工做的小裝飾品和墻紙做的德國式風鈴，我們把這些風鈴掛在了天花板上。但自始至終，她都是孤零零地遠遠觀望，仿佛是隔了一道幾里長的障礙。我猜想著這個安靜的孩子發生了什么事，原先是那么快樂，怎么突然變得沉默寡言起來。我希望節日的活動能吸引她，可還是無濟于事。

　　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.

　　贈送禮物的那天終于到了。在交換禮物時我們為對方親手做的小禮品不停地歡呼叫好。而整個過程中，她只是安靜地坐在那兒看著。我為她做的小袋很特別，紅綠相間還鑲著白邊。我非常想看到她笑一笑。她打開包裝，動作又慢又小心。我等待著，但是她卻轉過了身。

　　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.