女兒今年獲得金獎的一篇描寫孩子成長變化的小美文，讀完之後有一種令人淡淡的傷感的味道。文章從一個母親的角度觀察女兒成長過程中的變化，簡單地通過在一顆橡樹上的幾個時間點的母女經曆生動細膩地描寫了女孩子成長的光陰，而這段光陰大概是每個父母都應該經曆過的並終身難忘的。
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成長的光陰
我們一起坐在後院一個大橡樹上，母親和女兒，像小孩子一樣擺晃著我們的腿。我給你講述當年我是如何遇見你父親的故事，而你在聽到每個有趣的地方不斷傻傻的地笑著。你六歲了，如同一個完美的縮影，生命透過你明亮的眼睛，淩亂而飄逸的長發，閃閃發光。你抓緊我的手，以保持在樹上的平衡，我微笑著看著你那緊張的黏在一起的小指頭。我們一起吃著冰棍，你的總是櫻桃味的而我總是葡萄的味。融化的果汁從你下巴掉滑下來，你微笑的時候，露出你的被染成紅色的牙齒。我突然又變成一個吸血鬼，嚇得你大聲尖叫，我也放聲大笑。我對你的愛勝過一切。
你八歲了，我們又坐在同一棵橡樹上。你的腿變得更長，上麵布滿了足球訓練之後的花花綠綠的淤青，傷痕。你心不在焉地摳起a腳踝上的一個老結痂。你的頭發長長了，性子還和以前一樣野。你給我談起三年級的第一天，你按刻薄順序列出每一個老師，你扳手指列舉出你班上每一個朋友的名字。我跟不上你談笑的節奏，隻是聽著你的聲音，心滿意足的微笑著。這一天是美好的，夏末外麵的熱浪和野外燒烤的味道在空中彌漫著。我們吃著冰棍，坐在那個橡樹的樹蔭下。我仍然是喜歡的葡萄味的，但你現已經改變，更喜歡藍莓味的。你進步了一些，不再讓融化的果汁從你下巴和手指上滑下來，但你依然還讓你的白色T恤衫上印上一個大大的藍色的汙點。你緊緊地握住我的手，支持著使我們我們坐在一起，你的手掌感覺起來軟軟的，汗津津的。
你的十一歲生日後的第二天，是一個美麗的陽春四月的一天。我們坐在橡樹裏，折著紙，這是你過去最喜歡幹的。你又開始聊起你學校的事情，這次是關於你們班上的一個新男孩。你談起他的眼睛的顏色，他怎麽叫你笨蛋的那種神態。我心裏覺得你太年輕了，不該產生暗戀，但我沒有說話，隻是靜靜地聽著你講。你又問起你爸爸和我過去的故事，我愉快地又給你講了一遍。我依然告訴了你同樣的故事，和幾年前給你講的一模一樣，你還是在那些有趣的地方咯咯地笑了起來。我又吃起另一個葡萄味的冰棍，但這次你拿起的是一整塊的Ben & Jerry'牌子的冰淇淋。你開始喜歡Ben & Jerry'牌子中那個紐約超級蒙混塊味道的，我讓你盡量深吸一口氣，因為當巧克力漬粘到的牙上的時候會讓我想起來你小時候的樣子。當你從樹上下來的時候，你拒絕了我的幫助，你小心翼翼從一個樹枝下到另一個樹枝，眉頭緊鎖，全神貫注。
你已經坐在橡樹上，無聊地，在等著我。你修剪整齊的指甲重重地敲擊你的手機屏幕，敲擊聲淹沒了周圍昆蟲的嗡鳴聲，你的長腿靜靜的垂下，一動不動。你穿著膝蓋上故意撕開洞口的牛仔褲，你的頭發又直又光。我有點氣喘地爬上樹和你坐在一起，其間盡量不要讓你看見。你十五歲了，這是這一周第一次，我們單獨在一起消磨時光。我本想告訴你應該改變一下你襯衫的式樣，因為它太過低胸，也想警告你要對你的新男友小心謹慎，還想告訴你要在學校裏盡可能地努力功課。但是，看到你時我沒有說出這些話，隻是問了問你這一天過的怎麽樣。你對我的回答，簡短，而且僅僅幾個字，你的視線一直沒有離開你手機屏幕。我問你是否要冰淇淋，你不高興地大聲說，冰淇淋會使你發胖。然後，一個迅速簡單的動作，你便從樹上流暢地跳了下去，一溜煙消失在家裏，砰地一聲關上你身後的大門。
你十八歲了，我孤單地坐在橡樹上。已是深秋，金色的樹葉紛飛揚揚地飄下，滿滿地散落的我周圍的地上，空氣清晰爽朗。你三個星期前已經去上大學，但失去你的痛苦仍讓我曆曆在目。我心不在焉地撫摸你以前常坐的地方。你已經變得更加聰明美麗，富有智慧，我不能不為你而感到自豪和驕傲。然而，我依然想念你的小手，你膝蓋上的跌傷的疤痕，你的聲音裏的那種腔調，甚至你青少年期那胡思亂想的叛逆神情。無意間，我低頭看見我的雙手，它們看來皺皺巴巴扭扭曲曲的，我突然似乎覺得它們和我坐的橡樹一樣蒼老了。我舔了一口我的葡萄味的冰棒，並想起了你。記憶不斷膨脹起來，淚水奪眶而出。我的手發抖了，融化的果汁滑下我的手腕。你長大了，我變老了。
Nest
We are sitting in a great oak tree in our backyard together, mother and daughter, swinging our legs like little kids. I am telling you a story about how I met your father, and you giggle in all the right places. You are six and the epitome of perfection, with life sparkling in your eyes and messy, flowing hair. You clutch my hand to keep balance on the tree, and I smile at the stickiness of your small fingers. We are both eating popsicles, yours cherry as always and mine grape. The juice dribbles down your chin, and when you smile, your teeth are stained red. I’m a vampire, you scream and I laugh out loud. I love you more than anything.
You are eight, and we sit in the same tree. Your legs have grown longer, covered with a colorful array of bruises and scars from soccer practice. You pick absently at an old scab from your ankle. Your hair is longer now, yet just as wild as it was before. You talk to me about your first day of third grade, listing your teachers in order of how mean they are and ticking off with your fingers the names of your friends in your classes. I lose track of the conversation and smile contently at the sound of your voice. The day is nice and hot, the smell of late summer and barbeque still hanging in the air. We have popsicles sitting in the shade of that oak tree. I still have grape, but you decide you like the blue raspberry better now. You are getting better at keeping the juice from sliding down your chin and fingers, but you still manage to get a huge blue splotch onto your white t-shirt. You hold my hand for support when we get down together, your palms soft and sticky.
It’s a beautiful spring day in April, the day after your eleventh birthday. We sit in the oak tree folding origami, one of your new favorite past times. You chat about school again, and about a new boy in your class. You talk about the color of his eyes and how he calls you stupid in an affectionate manner. I think you are too young to have a crush, but I keep quiet and listen. You ask about the story of your dad and me, and I happily oblige. I tell the same story just as I did years ago, and you still laugh at exactly the right places. I eat another grape popsicle, but this time you hold an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. You like the New York Super Fudge Chunk flavor, and I let you inhale as much as you want, because the way the chocolate stains your teeth reminds me of you when you were younger. You refuse my help getting down from the tree, and carefully climb down each branch on your own, your brow furrowed in concentration.
You are already sitting in the tree, bored and waiting for me. Your manicured nails tap loudly against the screen of your phone, drowning out the lazy buzz of insects, and your long legs are still and unmoving. You are wearing jeans with holes ripped at the knees, and your hair is straight and shiny. I pant a little as I climb up to join you, but try not to let it show. You are fifteen, and this is the first time all week we have spent alone. I want to tell you to change your shirt, which is too low cut, and warn you about your new boyfriend, and ask you to try harder in school. But instead, I ask about your day. You answer my questions in short, brief words, and do not take your eyes from the screen of your phone. I ask if you want ice cream, and you snap that it will make you fat. You jump from the tree in one single, fluid motion, and disappear into house, slamming the door behind you.
You are eighteen, and I sit in the tree alone. It is late autumn, with golden leaves twirling to the ground all around me, the air sharp and brisk. You have gone to college three weeks ago, but the pain of losing you is still fresh in my mind. I absently stroke the spot you used to sit. You turn out to be a beautiful, intelligent person, and I cannot be more proud of you. Yet I still miss your tiny hands, the bruises on your knees, the pitchiness of your voice, and even your cranky teenage attitude. Unconsciously, I stare down at my own hands. They seem wrinkled and distorted, and suddenly I feel as aged as the oak tree I sit on. I lick my grape popsicle and think of you, memories swelling up and tears threatening to overflow. My hand shakes, and juice slides down my wrist. You are grown up, and I am old.
