在朋友们的唆使之下，我写了这篇文章。我叫米尔德里德.汉德夫，我从前是爱荷华州德莫恩尼斯市一所小学校的音乐教师。我经常教钢琴课贴补我的收入，我一直教了三十几年。
我发现孩子们的音乐能力参差不齐。尽管我教过一些有才华的学生，但我从来没有享受过拥有得意门生的幸福感。然而，我也教过所谓“在音乐方面有困难的”学生，罗比就是其中之一。罗比11岁那年，她妈妈（单亲母亲）第一次开车送他来上钢琴课。
我喜欢学生（尤其是男生）从较早的年龄开始练琴，我对罗比这样说了，但是罗比说，他妈妈一直梦想听他弹钢琴，所以，我接收了这个学生。然而，从一开始上课，我就认为他是在白费劲，因为罗比缺少成为优秀钢琴手的乐感和节奏感，尽管他很努力。罗比还是认真地复习着我要求学生必须掌握的音阶和基本知识。
几个月来，罗比一直很用功，我听着，没有什么信心，但还在鼓励他。每个周末上完课时，他总是说：“有一天，妈妈会听我弹琴的。”可是，似乎是没有什么希望，他实在是没有天赋。我从远处见过她的母亲，在她用她的旧车接送罗比的时候，她总是笑着挥挥手，但从来没有进来过。一天，罗比没来上课，我想过打电话给他，但又推断他是因为缺少天赋，决定去学其他什么东西了。我也很高兴，他不再来了，他是我教琴水平的负面广告。
几个星期后，我把有关即将举行的演奏会的宣传单邮到了罗比家，让我吃惊的是，罗比（他接到了宣传单）问我他是否可以参加演奏会，我告诉罗比，演奏会是为正在学习的同学举行的，他没有资格，因为他辍学了。
他说他妈妈病了，没法带他来上钢琴课，但他一直在练习。“米尔德里德小姐…我既定要去弹琴。”他坚持说。我不知道是什么让我允许他参加演奏会了。
或许是因为他的坚持，或许是因为我心里的一个声音在说这没问题。
演奏会之夜到了。一所高中的体育馆里坐满了家长、朋友和亲属。我把罗比安排到最后一个节目，在我上场感谢学生们并弹上一曲之前，我想让他带来的不好的影响出现在节目最后，我通常可以用我的“压轴戏”拯救一下水平欠佳的表演。
演奏会成功地进行着，学生们一直在练习，得到了展示。罗比上场了，他的衣服满是皱褶，他的头发好像“用打蛋器打过”。
“为什么他没像其他学生一样穿戴整齐呢？”我想，“为什么他妈妈没为这个特殊的夜晚至少给他梳梳头呢？”
罗比拉出琴凳，开始了。当他宣布他选了莫扎特C大调第21号奏鸣曲时，我很惊讶。我接下来听到的更出乎我的意料。他的手指像在象牙般的琴键上跳舞一样轻盈，他从最弱音弹到最强音，从急速乐章的演奏者变成了艺术品欣赏家，莫扎特作品要求的舒缓的情绪被展现得非常完美。我从没有听到过他那个年龄的孩子如此精彩地演奏莫扎特的作品。六分半钟之后，他以雄壮的强音结束了演奏，全场起立为他热烈鼓掌，我被他的演奏征服了，我流着泪跑上台欣喜地抱着他说：“罗比，我从来没听过有人弹得那么好。”
“你是怎么做到的？”罗比通过麦克风解释说：“米尔德里德小姐，还记得我告诉过你我妈妈病了吧？事实上，她得了癌症，在今天早上去世了。她生来就失聪，所以，今晚是她第一次听到我弹琴，我想弹得好一些。”那天晚上，体育馆中所有的人都落泪了。
当社会服务部门的人员把罗比从舞台上带走，准备去看护中心的时候，我注意到他们的眼睛也是又红又肿的，我想因为有罗比这样的学生，我的生活是多么有意义呀。不，我从来没有一个得意门生，我是罗比的学生，他是老师，我是学生。因为是他教会了我有关坚忍不拔、爱和相信自己的真正含义，他还教了我可以在一个人身上碰碰运气，尽管你不知道为什么要这么做。这对我尤其有意义，因为在服务于“沙漠风暴”之后，罗比于1995年4月在对俄克拉荷马市阿尔弗雷德P.姆拉联邦大厦的恐怖袭击中被炸身亡，据说他正在那里弹钢琴。
Sam’s Way
One day my four-year-old son， Sam， told me that he’d seen his babysitter crying because she’s broken up with her boyfriend， “She was sad，” he explained. “I have never been sad，” Sam added. “Not ever.”
It was true. Sam’s life was happy—in large part because of his relationship with my father. As Sam told everyone， Pa Hood was more than a grandfather to him—they were buddies.
There is a scene in the movie Anne of Green Gables in which Anne wishes aloud for a bosom friend. Watching that one day， Sam sat up and declared， “That’s me and Pa—bosom friends forever and ever.”
My father described their relationship the same way. When I went out of town one night a week to teach， it was Pa in his red pickup truck who’d meet Sam at school and take him back to his house. There they’d play pirates and knights and Robin Hood.
They even dressed alike： pocket T-shirts， baseball caps and jeans. They had special restaurants they frequented， playgrounds where they were regulars， and toy stores where Pa allowed Sam to race up and down the aisles on motorized cars.
Sam had even memorized my father’s phone number and called him every morning and night. “Pa，” he would ask， clutching the phone， “can I call you ten hundred more times？” Pa always said yes and answered the phone every time with equal delight.
Then my father became ill. In the months he was hospitalized for lung cancer， I worried about how Sam would react to Pa’s condition： the needle bruises， the oxygen tubes， his weakened state. When I explained to Sam that seeing Pa so sick might scare him， he was surprised. “He could never scare me，” Sam said.
Later I watched adults approach my father’s hospital bed with trepidation， unsure of what to say or do. But Sam knew exactly what was right： hugs and jokes， as always.
“Are you coming home soon？” he’d ask.
“I’m trying，” Pa would tell him.
When my dad died， everything changed for me and Sam. Not wanting to confront the questions and feelings my father’s death raised， I kept my overwhelming sadness at bay. When wellmeaning people asked how I was doing， I’d give them a short answer and swiftly change the subject.
Sam was different， however. For him， wondering aloud was the best way to understand.
“So，” he’d say， settling in his car seat， “Pa’s in space， right？” Or， pointing at a stained-glass window in church， He’d ask， “Is one of those angels Pa？”
“Where’s heaven？” Sam asked right after my father died.
“No one knows exactly，” I said. “Lots of people think it’s in the sky.” “No” Sam said， shaking his head， “It’s very far away. Near Cambodia.”
“When you die，” he asked on another afternoon， “you disappear， right？ And when you faint， you only disappear a little. Right？”
I thought his questions were good. The part I had trouble with was what he always did afterward： he’d look me right in the eye with more hope than I could stand and wait for my approval or correction or wisdom. But in this matter my fear and ignorance were so large that I’d grow dumb in the face of his innocence.
Remembering Sam’s approach to my father’s illness， I began to watch his approach to grief. At night he’d press his face against his bedroom window and cry， calling out into the darkness， “Pa， I love you！ Sweet dreams！” Then， after his tears stopped， he’d climb into bed， somehow satisfied， and sleep. I， however， would wander the house all night， not knowing how to mourn.
One day in the supermarket parking lot， I saw a red truck like my father’s. For an instant I forgot he had died. My heart leapt as I thought， Dad’s here！
Then I remembered and succumbed to an onslaught of tears. Sam climbed onto my lap and jammed himself between me and the steering wheel.
“You miss Pa， don’t you？” he asked.
I managed to nod.
“You have to believe he’s with us， Mommy，” he said. “You have to believe that.”
Too young to attach to a particular ideology， Sam was simply dealing with grief and loss by believing that death does not really separate us from those we love. I couldn’t show him heaven on a map or explain the course a soul might travel. But he’d found his won way to cope.
Recently while I was cooking dinner， Sam sat by himself at the kitchen table， quietly coloring in his Spider-Man coloring book. “I love you too，” he said.
I laughed and turned to face him. “No，” I told him. “You say， ‘I love you too’ only after someone says， ‘I love you’ first.”
“I know that，” Same said， “Pa just said ‘I love you， Sam.’ and I said ‘I love you too.’” As he spoke， he kept coloring.
“Pa just talked to you？” I asked.
“Oh， Mommy，” Sam said， “he e tells me that he loves me every day. He tells you too. You’re just not listening.”
Again， I have begun to take Sam’s lead. I have begun to listen.
