第一章 有一种爱叫放手（30）
《世界上最温情的故事》作者：吴文智 2017-04-14 12:57
第一章 有一种爱叫放手（30）
1. 那块表极具时代感，功能齐全又有装饰作用——对于当时的女性而言，那是一件非常珍贵的饰物。
2. 无论我的身体或衣服有多么潮湿，这块表都始终完好无损并保持干燥。
3. 如今，在母亲买这块表的84年之后，我的女儿带上了那块表。它还一直在工作着。
1. convert into: If you convert the trousers into a skirt, nobody could identify it.
2. hold one’s breath: If you don’t want to be detected, you must hold your breath.
栀子花开
Mystery of the White Gardenia
佚名／Anonymous
Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, Md. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain—it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender’s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydre***ng about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentrics to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I’d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teenager, though, I had more f
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1. 那块表极具时代感，功能齐全又有装饰作用——对于当时的女性而言，那是一件非常珍贵的饰物。
2. 无论我的身体或衣服有多么潮湿，这块表都始终完好无损并保持干燥。
3. 如今，在母亲买这块表的84年之后，我的女儿带上了那块表。它还一直在工作着。
1. convert into: If you convert the trousers into a skirt, nobody could identify it.
2. hold one’s breath: If you don’t want to be detected, you must hold your breath.
栀子花开
Mystery of the White Gardenia
佚名／Anonymous
Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, Md. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain—it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender’s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydre***ng about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentrics to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I’d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teenager, though, I had more f