At the time my son was born in 1956, I shared a hospital room with a young woman who bore a son on the same day. Partly because my parents owned a shop selling flowers, the room was soon filled with the lovely scent of roses.

    As the seventh floral arrangement was brought in, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, for no flowers had arrived for my roommate, Ann. She sat on the edge of her bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet1. She was a pretty young woman, yet there was something about her large, brown eyes that made me think she had known too much struggling, too much sadness for one so young. I had the feeling she had always had to admire someone else’s flowers.

    “I’m enjoying every minute of this”, she said as though she had read my thoughts and was trying to reassure me. “Wasn’t I the lucky one to get you for a roommate？”

    I still felt uncomfortable, however. If only there were some magic button I could push to take away the sadness in her eyes. Well, I thought, at least I can see that she has some flowers. When my mother and father came to see me that day, I asked them to send her some.

    The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing supper.

    “Another bouquet for you,” she said, laughing.

    “No, not this time,” I said, looking at the card. “These are for you.”

    Ann stared at the blossoms a long time, not saying anything. She ran her fingers across the paleblue ceramic2 bootee and lightly touched each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside as though trying to engrave them on her memory.

    “How can I ever thank you？” she said softly.

    I was almost embarrassed. It was such a little kindness on my part. The son born to my husband and me that day in 1956 turned out to be our only child. For nearly 21 years he filled our lives with love and laughter, making us feel complete. But on Easter morning in April 1977, after a long, painful battle with cancer, he died quietly in our arms.

    At the funeral home I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses, when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet. I didn’t read the card until later, as we rode to the cemetery. “To W. John Graves,” the card said, “from the boy who was born with you at Memorial Hospital, and his mother.”

    Only then did I recognize the ceramic bootee I had given to a sad young woman so many years ago, now once again filled with roses. Ann and I had 1ong since lost touch. She had never known our son, never been aware of his illness. She must have read the notice of his death in a newspaper. I passed the card on to my mother sitting beside me. She, too, remembered.

    “A kindness returned,” Mother said.

    A few days later, my husband and I, with several members of our family, went to the cemetery to clear John’s grave. The bootee of roses sat at its foot, towered over by tall wreaths3 and sprays.

    “How strange that anyone would send something like that to a funeral,” someone said. “It seems more appropriate for a birth.”

    “There was a birth,” said my husband quietly. “John was born into Eternal Life.” I looked at him with surprise, knowing those words were difficult for a man who had never spoken openly about such matters.

    He emptied out the flowers and handed me the ceramic bootee. I held it and, just as Ann had done, I traced it with my fingers, thinking of all the messages it contained: the embers of friendship that glow through the years, gratitude remembered and, beneath it all, the promise of resurrection, which comforts us now.

    1956年，儿子出生时，我与一位年轻女子共住一间病房，那天，她也生了一个儿子。也许是因为我的父母开花店的缘故吧，我们的病房很快就充满了玫瑰花的馨香。

    当我第七次收到花束时，我开始不安起来，因为和我同住一屋的安从没收到过。她坐在床边，身子前倾着，欣赏刚刚送来的鲜花。她是个漂亮的少妇，但是，那双褐色的大眼睛里总闪烁着忧郁，让我觉得她经历了太多的人生苦难，年轻的生命有着太多的忧伤，似乎总是只能欣赏别人的花束。

    “我在这里一直很愉快，”她似乎看出了我的心思，想让我放心，“我能和你住在一起，不是很幸运吗？”

    不过，我仍觉得有些不安，要是能有一种神奇的按钮，一按就能解除她眼中的忧伤就好了。哦，我想，至少我能让她拥有一些鲜花。那天，父母再来看望我时，我便要他们送安一些花。

    我和安刚吃完晚饭，鲜花就送来了。

    “又给你送花来了。”她笑着说。

    “不，这次不是，”我看着卡片说，“这是给你的！”

    良久，安凝视着鲜花，用手指轻轻抚摸着浅蓝色的靴形瓷瓶，又温柔地触摸插在瓶中的每一朵娇艳欲滴的玫瑰花，似乎想把这一切深深地铭刻在记忆中。

    “我该怎么感谢你呢？”她轻声说道。

    我有些局促不安。这只是我的一点点善意而已。1956年出生的儿子成了我们夫妇的独生子。近21年来，他用爱和欢笑充实了我们的生活，让我们感到心满意足。但是，1977年4月复活节的那个早晨，在与癌症进行了漫长而痛苦地搏斗后，他静静地死在我们怀里。

    殡仪馆内，我单独与儿子待在一间弥漫着玫瑰花香的屋里。邮递员送来了一小束鲜花，直到后来，我们乘车去公墓的路上，我才看到卡片：“献给约翰 格雷夫斯——与你同天出生在纪念医院的孩子和他的母亲谨上。”

    这时，我才认出这个靴形瓷瓶是很多年前我送给一位忧郁的年轻女子的。如今它再一次插满了玫瑰。我和安很早以前就失去了联系。她根本不认识我们的儿子，也不知道他得病。她一定是在报纸上看到讣告了，妈妈坐在我身边，我把卡片递给她，她也想起来了。

    “这是一种友好的报答。”妈妈说。

    几天后，我和丈夫以及家人去公墓给约翰扫墓。那瓶玫瑰还在高高的花圈和枝丫上放着。

    “真奇怪，谁会送这些东西作为葬礼，”有人说道，“它看上去像是祝贺新生的。”

    “它是祝贺新生的，”丈夫静静地说，“约翰诞生在永恒的国度了。”我惊讶地看着他，我知道，他从不坦率谈及此事，说出这话很不容易。

    他拿出鲜花，递给我那个靴形瓷瓶，我捧着它，就像当年安所做的那样，抚摸着它，思索着它所蕴涵的种种意义，我想，友谊并未随着岁月的流逝而消失；我想起记忆长河中的感激之情；还有更为重要的——新生的希望。此时正是这些在慰藉我们的心灵。