When I finished the cookies she brought a thick, small book from the bookcase. I had read A Tale of Two Cities and found it up to my standards as a romantic novel. She opened the first page and I heard poetry for the first time in my life.
“It was the best of times and worst of times...”
Her voice slid in and curved down through and over the words. She was nearly singing. I wanted to look at the pages. Were they the same that I had read Or were there notes, music, lined on the pages Her sounds began cascading(瀑布般落下) gently. I knew that she was nearing the end of her reading.
“How do you like that”
It occurred to me that she expected a response. The sweet vanilla flavor was still on my tongue and her reading was a magic to my ears. I had to speak.
I said, “Yes, ma’am.” It was the least I could do, but it was the most also.
“There’s one more thing. Take this book of poems and memorize one for me. Next time you pay me a visit, I want to recite.”
I have often tried hard to search for the enchantment(着迷) I so easily found in those gifts. To be allowed, no, invited, into the private lives of strangers, to share their joys and fears, was a chance to exchange the Southern bitter wormwood(苦艾) for a cup of mead(蜂蜜酒) with Beowulf or a hot cup of tea and milk with Oliver Twist. When I said aloud, “It is a far, far better thing than anything I have ever done...” tears of love filled my eyes at my selflessness.
I was liked, and what a difference it made, I was respected not as Mr Henderson’s grandchild or Bailey’s sister but for just being Marguerite Johnson
When I finished the cookies she brought a thick, small book from the bookcase. I had read A Tale of Two Cities and found it up to my standards as a romantic novel. She opened the first page and I heard poetry for the first time in my life.“It was the best of times and worst of times...”Her voice slid in and curved down through and over the words. She was nearly singing. I wanted to look at the pages. Were they the same that I had read Or were there notes, music, lined on the pages Her sounds began cascading(瀑布般落下) gently. I knew that she was nearing the end of her reading.“How do you like that”It occurred to me that she expected a response. The sweet vanilla flavor was still on my tongue and her reading was a magic to my ears. I had to speak.I said, “Yes, ma’am.” It was the least I could do, but it was the most also.“There’s one more thing. Take this book of poems and memorize one for me. Next time you pay me a visit, I want to recite.”I have often tried hard to search for the enchantment(着迷) I so easily found in those gifts. To be allowed, no, invited, into the private lives of strangers, to share their joys and fears, was a chance to exchange the Southern bitter wormwood(苦艾) for a cup of mead(蜂蜜酒) with Beowulf or a hot cup of tea and milk with Oliver Twist. When I said aloud, “It is a far, far better thing than anything I have ever done...” tears of love filled my eyes at my selflessness.I was liked, and what a difference it made, I was respected not as Mr Henderson’s grandchild or Bailey’s sister but for just being Marguerite Johnson
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