Mother And Son Are Special In Sometime
It was Christmas 1961
It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third grade students awaited the great day of giving gifts.
A tree covered with tinsel and paper chains adorned striking a corner. In another break a manger produced from cardboard and poster paint for fat, dirty and sometimes hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it on the straw in the cardboard box that served as a manger. Never mind that could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed, golden-haired dolly say, "My name is Susan." "Jesus was a baby, child!" proclaimed one of the boys. However, Susie stayed.
Every day, children produce some new wonder - strings of popcorn, handmade ornaments, and bells of German from samples of wallpaper, hanging from the ceiling. Through it all we remained on the sidelines, watching from afar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this child quiet, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I was hoping the festivities attracted to her. But nothing did. We made cards and gifts for mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, grandparents, and one to the other. At home, students made the popular fried balls and competed with each other to bring the most beautiful. "You put in a hot pan, Master. And let them really hot, and then see what happens inside. However, do not fry too long or broken." So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students a small bag to carry your marbles fried. And I knew there was something that every fact for me: markers carefully cut, color and sometimes stuck, cards and special drawings, embroidered floor mats liquids, hand fringed, of course.
The day of gift-giving finally arrived. We sighed and exclamations about our work, as gifts were exchanged. Nevertheless, she sat quietly watching. I made a special bag for her, red and green with white lace. I really wanted to see his smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited, but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wall of isolation that had built around it.
After school the children went in small groups, chatting about the big day is coming when as expected for two-wheelers and sleds bright appear next to the trees at home. She stopped, looking as shelter and walk out the door. I sat in a child-sized chair to catch his breath, barely conscious of what was happening, when she came to me with outstretched hands, taking a little white box, unopened and get a little dirty, as if it had been declared several times for washing hands, was a child. She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a faint smile. She did not say a word, but nodded. I took the box and opened it with caution. Inside, bright green, a fried marble hanging from a gold chain. Then I looked to the elders of eight years of age, face and saw the question in his dark brown eyes. In an instant I knew - I had done for his mother, a mother who never see again, a mother who never brush her hair or hold or share a funny story, a mother who never again hear his childish joy or pain . A mother who had killed himself just three weeks earlier.
He held the chain. She took it with both hands, leaned forward and simple closure is secured in the back of my neck. He stepped back then, as if to see that everything was fine. I looked down at the shiny glass and tarnished gold chain, then back to the donor. I said when I whispered, "Oh, Mary, is so beautiful. She would have loved." None of us could stop mourn. She stumbled into my arms and cried together. And for that brief moment I became her mother because she had given me the greatest gift of all: herself. this author comes from www.tera2buy.com
by: Abraham
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