Since the day he became a part of me, I have tried to prepare us both for this separation. Right or wrong, almost everything I' ve ever done has been wrapped up in readying him to be without me, and now I' m scared to death. Now I can only trust his future to the past, but that look had to be a good sign. I' ve told him that I love him every day, two, three or 12 times a day, for 14 years now. He usually says it back. It' s become a habit. May it last. May it protect him when I can' t.
I' ll risk having my son roll his eyes at me, and I' ll tell him again and again: Talk to me, I' m here for you. Trust me, I' ll help you. I' ll always listen. You can tell me anything.
And a thousand times a day I' ll say "I love you". Sometimes he' ll say it back. But even when he doesn' t, I' ll hear it anyway.
我的儿子在慢慢长大，我感到害怕，更确切地说是恐惧。美色、驾车、酒精和毒品，我该如何使他免受这些事物的影响？
在他小的时候，我就是那种凡事都要过问的母亲。就算是一些看起来无关紧要的经验，只要我认为它会影响孩子的成长，即便我又苦又累时，我也会向孩子阐述明白。“我这样做是为将来打算。”我会这样告诉自己和那些不理解我的人。如今，我非常希望我的感觉是正确的。
我对他的影响作用日趋减少，因为他更多的是和他的同龄人在一起，更容易受他们的影响。我担心我的作用会被那些着装前卫的男孩女孩所取代。可我还是坚持把基本的道理告诉他，即便他当时不愿意听，并且，对于一些棘手的问题，我总是正面提出来。我坚定我的理念。在他性格定型时期，我要求他全心全意听我的，或许这种不屈不挠的一贯立场会帮助我们俩。
不管怎么说，我知道还没有彻底失去他。因为那天，我送他去学校，当他下车时，他看我的眼神告诉了我这一切。
他拎起背包后，我一如既往地说了句“我爱你”。平时，他会说：“我也爱你，再见。”可他没那么做，我没觉得有什么不妥。他已经14岁了，我还希望什么呢？这时，他真诚地看着我，静静地说：“我爱你。”他直视我的眼睛，以确定我听到了他的话。
这时，那些路过的女孩子不会听到他的话。这一切就发生在一刹那，它让我眩晕，好像整个世界都停止下来，我什么也听不到了。就在那一瞬间，我完全体会了他生命的一切。在这个世界上，我比任何人都了解他。我能听见他还没说出的话，我知道他是想说：“我也爱你，妈妈，我希望你明白这些。我想在你说我爱你时，也同样地对你说，可是不巧有人路过，她们或许听到我的话，可能会戏弄我。可我确实不愿意伤害你的感情，我想在你离开前，听到我说这句话。因为我真的爱你。请你理解。”
我的确理解。我知道成长的过程是艰难的，所以即使可以再次成为一个少年，我也不会那么做。我知道我不可能永远和他在一起，也不可能保护他远离所有潜伏的伤害。我知道，让他时时知道我在他身边，他可以随时得到我的帮助是很重要。因此，我反反复复地告诉他这一点，即使他说：“妈妈，你已告诉我一千遍了。”
从我孕育他的那天起，我就尝试为我俩的离别作准备。无论正确与否，我做的每一件事情，都是为了他将来没有我的时候作准备。因此，如今我更是惶惶不可终日。对于他的未来，我现在只能指望我以前的努力了，然而那个眼神肯定是一个好的暗示。我每天两次、三次，甚至十二次地告诉他：我爱他，到现在已经坚持了十四年了。他一般也会对我说他爱我，这已经成了他的一种习惯。希望这个习惯能保持下去，希望它会在我爱莫能助时保护他。
我会冒着儿子冷眼相对的危险，不断地告诉他：跟我说吧，我就在你身边；相信我，我会帮助你；我会永远倾听，你可以告诉我一切事情。
我每天说一千遍“我爱你”，有时他会回应我。即使他不说，我也可以听得到。
一个男孩的心愿
A Boy with a Mission
因德·夏尔马 / Indra Sharma
In 1945, a 12-year-old boy saw something in a shop window that set his heart racing. But the price—five dollars—was far beyond Reuben Earle' s means. Five dollars would buy almost a week' s groceries for his family.
Reuben couldn' t ask his father for the money. Everything Mark Earle made through fishing in Bay Roberts, Newfoundland, Canada. Reuben' s mother, Dora, stretched like elastic to feed and clothe their five children.
Nevertheless, he opened the shop' s weathered door and went inside. Standing proud and straight in his flour—sack shirt and washed-out trousers, he told the shopkeeper what he wanted, adding, "But I don' t have the money right now. Can you please hold it for me for some time? "
"I' ll try, " the shopkeeper smiled. "Folks around here don' t usually have that kind of money to spend on things. It should keep for a while."
Reuben respectfully touched his worn cap and walked out into the sunlight with the bay rippling in a freshening wind. There was a purpose in his loping stride. He would raise the five dollars and not tell anybody.
Hearing the sound of hammering from a side street, Reuben had an idea.
He ran towards the sound and stopped at a construction site. People built their own homes in Bay Roberts, using nails purchased in hessian sacks from a local factory. Sometimes the sacks were discarded in the flurry of building, and Reuben knew he could sell them back to the factory for five cents a piece.
That day he found two sacks which he took to the rambling wooden factory and sold to the man in charge of packing nails.
The boy' s hand tightly clutched the five-cent pieces as he ran the two kilometers home.
Near his house stood the ancient barn that housed the family' s goats and chickens. Reuben found a rusty baking-soda tin and dropped his coins inside. Then he climbed into the loft of the barn and hid the tin beneath a pile of sweet-smelling hay.
It was dinner time when Reuben got home. His father sat at the big kitchen table, working on a fishing net. Dora was at the kitchen stove, ready to serve dinner as Reuben took his place at the table.
He looked at his mother and smiled. Sunlight from the window gilded her shoulder-length blonde hair. Slim and beautiful, she was the center of the home, the glue that held it together.
Her chores were never-ending. Sewing clothes for her family on the old Singer treadle machine, cooking meals and baking bread, planting and tending a vegetable garden, milking the goats and scrubbing soiled clothes on a washboard. But she was happy. Her family and their well-being were her highest priority.
Every day after chores and school, Reuben scoured the town, collecting the hessian nail bags. On the day the two-room school closed for the summer, no student was more delighted than Reuben. Now he would have more time for his mission.
All summer long, despite chores at home—weeding and watering the garden, cutting wood and fetching water—Reuben kept to his secret task.
Then all too soon the garden was harvested, the vegetables canned and stored, and the school reopened. Soon the leaves fell and the winds blew cold and gusty from the bay. Reuben wandered the streets, diligently searching for his hessian treasures.
Often he was cold, tired and hungry, but the thought of the object in the shop window sustained him. Sometimes his mother would ask:"Reuben, where were you? We were waiting for you to have dinner."
"Playing, Mum, Sorry."
Dora would look at his face and shake her head. Boys.
