My mother contributed to these imaginings. She"d ask me if there were someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I"d helped 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 teen-ager， though， I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn"t know him.
When I was 17， a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time， I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning， there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick： Heartily know， when half-gods go， the gods arrive. I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time， and until my heart healed， I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaner， my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don"t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting，“You just don"t understand！？”Because she did understand.
One month before my high school graduation， my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment， fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation， the senior class play and the prom. But my mother， in the midst of her own grief， would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died， my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We"d found a spectacular one， with yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red， white and blue. It made me feel like Scarlett O"Hara， but it was the wrong size. When my father died， I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn"t. The day before the prom， I found that dress in the right size draped majestically over the living room sofa. It wasn"t just delivered， still in the box. It was presented to me beautifully， artistically， lovingly. I didn"t care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable， creative and imaginative， imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth， my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia. Lovely， strong and perfect with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died 10 days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
自十二岁生日起，每年的这一天都会有一支白色的栀子花送到我在马里兰州伯特斯达市的家里。花上没有附带任何卡片或便条。打电话询问花店也一直没有线索，因为购花者使用现金付账。不久，我便不再查找送花人是谁，而只是端详着那裹在粉色软纸中神秘无暇的白色栀子花，任自己陶醉在它浓烈的香气与绮丽中。
但是我对于神秘送花人的猜想从来没有止息。我的许多快乐时光都是在幻想送花人的样子中度过的——那一定是个令人兴奋、富有魅力的人，只是出于个性害羞或脾气古怪而不愿公开他或她的身份。
母亲也会和我一起猜测。她会问我是不是我帮助过的人在向我表示感激之情。有可能是邻居感谢我帮她把杂物搬下车，也有可能是街对面住的老爷爷感谢我在冬天帮他取信，省得他冒险走下因结冰而打滑的台阶。不过十几岁的我更乐意猜测送花人是某个我迷恋的或是我并不认识但却对我留意已久的男孩。
17岁那年，一个男孩伤透了我的心。他最后一次打电话给我的那个晚上，我是在哭泣中入眠的。早晨醒来，只见我的镜子上有一行用红色唇膏写的留言：“你应当知道，半人半神走了，神就来了。” 我用了很长时间体会爱默生的这句话。在抚平内心的伤痕之前，我一直没有抹去母亲的这句留言。而当我终于把它抹去时，母亲便知道一切又恢复了正常。
我从来不曾冲着她摔门，怒气冲冲地吼道：“你怎么就是不明白！？”因为她的确了解我的心思。
离高中毕业还有一周时，我的父亲死于心脏病。我的情绪十分复杂，对父亲的离去既悲伤又害怕，甚至怒不可遏——他就这样错过了我一生中几个最重要的时刻。我对即将到来的毕业典礼、高年级汇演和毕业舞会统统丧失了兴趣。但尽管母亲自己仍处于悲痛中，却不愿看到我错过任何一项活动。
父亲去世的前一天，母亲与我为毕业舞会挑选晚装。我们选中了那条令人惊艳的裙子——它有着红、白、蓝三色的缀花大裙摆。穿上它我觉得自己就像斯佳丽？奥赫拉一样。但是它不大合身。父亲一去世我就忘记了这回事。
母亲却没有忘。舞会的前一天，我发现那件晚装优雅地搭在客厅的沙发上，刚好合身。它不是简单地盛在盒子里邮递给我，而是饱含着爱心，并以一种极富美感与艺术性的方式呈现在我面前。我并不在意自己有没有新晚装，但母亲在意。
母亲要让自己的孩子能够感受到爱并且惹人疼爱；她要自己的孩子富有创造力与想象力，而且始终坚信：即使面临困境，奇迹仍会发生，美好依然存在。实际上，她想让她的孩子都把自己当作栀子花，成为可爱、坚强、完美的人，并具备一种极富魅力的气质，甚至有些神秘感。
在我结婚后的第10天，母亲去世了，当时我22岁。从那一年起，再也没有人给我送来栀子花。
A Long Way from Anywhere
长路漫漫
The seven-year-old girl sat quietly on the steps of the old， gray apartment complex， waiting for her mommy and daddy to come down with the last few items that would fit into their dilapidated， old Ford. She wrapped her torn and stained blue blanket around her shoulders and cuddled her handsome clown doll to her chest. Taking a deep breath， she blew out a sigh and watched her warm breath turn to crystal as it touched the early-morning air.
Here we go again， she thought. Another trip to who knows where.
Her bright blue eyes grew dark as her parents hurried down the stairs with only a few items.
“Where is Mr. Fuzzy Teddy？” she asked.
Without a word， Mommy gently ushered the little girl into the backseat of the car. The child sat with her arms crossed. She knew another toy was being left behind because there“wasn’t room”for it. She had heard the line so many times she wondered why she still asked. The last time they’d moved， her favorite doll had been left behind. The time before that， her four-foot-long， green snake with the rainbow-colored spots.
Each time something was left behind， it felt like a piece of her heart had been sliced off with a big， sharp carving knife. Since she was an only child and had no friends， her toys were her companions. To lose them was heart wrenching， but she suffered in silence. If she said anything， Daddy would just feel bad and go even more quiet than normal.
As they drove away， a salty tear rolled down her plump， pink cheek as she watched the red and green lights flashed by her window. It was Christmas Eve， and they were on the road again. She really thought that this year they were going to have a“real”Christmas. Mommy and she had put up a small tree they’d found out in the field. She had helped decorate it with popcorn and paper stars. They had even placed a little straw baby Jesus on one of the branches.
Now， they were driving away from the promise of Christmas. She wasn’t sure where they were going， only that they were heading in the direction of California. They always headed to California when the money was running out. Daddy had a sister there who always let him “borrow” money and let them stay with her a few days until Daddy could “get back on his feet.”