Leave an outlet for the soul - Beautiful English (English-Chinese Collection Edition)

Author: Italo Calvino
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: A Friendly Gift
In 1956, when my son was born, I shared a hospital room with a young woman. That day, she also gave birth to a son. Perhaps because my parents ran a flower shop, our room quickly filled with the fragrance of roses. When I received my seventh bouquet, I began to feel uneasy. Because the woman sharing my room, An, had never received any flowers. She sat by the bedside, leaning forward, admiring the freshly delivered blooms. She was a beautiful young woman, but her large brown eyes always held a hint of melancholy, as if she had endured too much hardship in life. Her young life seemed filled with sorrow, and she often appeared to be merely admiring someone else's bouquets.
"I've been very happy here," she seemed to sense my thoughts, trying to reassure me, "Being able to live with you isn't very lucky?" Still, I couldn't shake my unease. If there were a magical button I could press to erase the sorrow from her eyes, I would have pressed it. Oh, I thought, at least I could let her have some flowers. That day, when my parents came to visit, I asked them to bring An some flowers.
After we had dinner, the flowers arrived just as An and I were sitting there.
"Here are more flowers for you." she said with a smile.
"No, this time it's not," I said, looking at the card. "It's for you."
After a long moment, An stared at the flowers, gently touching the light blue boot-shaped vase with her fingers, then tenderly caressing each delicate, vibrant rose inserted into it, as if she wanted to etch it all into her memory.
"How can I thank you?" she whispered.
I felt a bit awkward. It was just a small gesture of kindness.
My son, born in 1956, became our only child. In the nearly 21 years that followed, he filled our lives with love and laughter, bringing us great joy. But on the morning of Easter in April 1977, after a long and painful battle with cancer, he quietly passed away in our arms. At the funeral home, I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses.
A delivery boy brought a small bouquet of flowers. It wasn't until we were driving to the cemetery that I noticed the card:
"To John Graves—The child and his mother who were born on the same day at Memorial Hospital."
Only then did I recognize the boot-shaped vase—it was the one I had given to a melancholic young woman many years ago. Now it was filled with roses once again.
An and I lost touch long ago. She didn't know our son, nor did she know he was ill. She must have seen the obituary in the newspaper. My mother sat beside me as I handed her the card. She remembered too.
"It's a friendly gift in return," she said.
A few days later, my husband, my family, and I went to the cemetery to clean John's grave. The vase of roses still stood tall among the high wreaths and branches.
"How strange, who would send flowers for a funeral?" someone remarked.
"It looks like a celebration of new life," another said.
"It is a celebration of new life," my husband quietly replied. "John has been born into eternal life."
I stared at him in astonishment. I knew he rarely spoke openly about such matters, and it was hard for him to say this. He took the flowers and handed me the vase. I held it, just as An had once done, touching it and contemplating the profound meaning it held.
I thought that friendship had not faded with the passage of time. I recalled the gratitude in my memories. And even more importantly—the hope of new life. It was these things that were comforting our hearts.