A Little Angel
來源:https://medium.com/the-coffeelicious/a-little-angel-12fe64ccf01d
[1]Everyone in our neighborhood knew Angela/'?nd?il?/. She was mycurly/'k?li/-hairedlittle girl with the energy of a rocket/'rɑk?t/engine. She loved to play all sorts of games with the other first graders on our street.Days and evenings would be filled with laughter and joy as they played soccer in a nearby field,street hockey/'hɑki/to theannoyance/?’n???ns/ofmotorists'mot?r?st/, and hide & seek which,in time, made the kids exceptional at hiding from their parents.
curly-haired頭發(fā)卷曲
street hockey/‘hɑki/https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_hockey
annoyance/?’n???ns/n. 煩惱；可厭之事；打擾
in time及時(shí)；適時(shí)
hide & seekHide & Seek:捉迷藏
[2]On a cool October day, I came home to the sweet smell of chocolate cookies, which was strong enough to be smelled from the front door. Instead ofhoardingthe cookies of her labor, Angela invited all of her friends over and shared them. With thetrustyhelp of Lucie, my wife, Angela became nearlyprodigiousat baking. She rapidly progressed tomuffins, banana bread and even pies. She would share her baking with the world when she was all grown-up, she said. I’ll never forget her saying, with a hugegrin, “Eating my delicious apple pie makes everyone feel better!”
[3]
Lucie and Ituckedin Angela after a rewarding Halloweenplunder, and went to bed ourselves. Itossedand turned, and Lucie couldn’t sleep either.
“We need to tell her, Phil,” she said in ahushtone.
I shook my head. “We did. She knows.”
Lucie turned on the smallnightstand lamp.
“She doesn’t know that it’s in the final stage. How long are we going to keep this from her? I don’t think it’s right, Phil,” she said.
Irubbedmy wife’s shoulder, but she replaced my hand back on my side of the bed. I sighed.
“I don’t want Angela to live her last days in fear,” I raised my voice.
“She has a right to know!” Lucie countered.
“And I want her to be happy!” I felt my face heat up, and I realised I needed to lower my voice or Angela would have heard us. “Why did we take her offchemo? Because it wasn’t working and it made her feel miserable. Imagine telling her that she might only have days or weeks left to live?—?what will that do to her?”
“I’m not imagining. We need to tell her. Tomorrow. Phil, we need toconfrontthis together, as a family, just as we did when we first learned about it.”
Igrumbled. We talked for another hour,mullingover our options, and the consequences on Angela. In the end, we decided we would sit down and talk to Angela about it tomorrow.
[4]It was the first of November — a cold, miserable day. Lucie was up before me, and told me what she saw. She couldn’t bear to be in the house any longer and went outside to call theparamedics. Her voice shook and her bodytrembled, and thechillymorning air didn’t help.
[5]We knew the day could come, but we refused to believe it. On that day, it hit us like a heavy hammer. That morning, I saw Angela lying in bed, her expression peaceful, as if in a deep sleep. I felt my entire worldtornfrom its roots. I feltimmaterial, like a weightless ghost. There was my little Angela, her hands cold and bodyrigid, and all color faded from her face. I sat on the edge of the bed, and it took a few minutes before the shock of it all settled in. Why her? What did my little girl do to deserve brain cancer?
[6]Then my throat felt tight, my stomach tense and my eyes hot. The world was painted with watercolor. I cried and cried, until no more tears flowed, andshiveredwhile grasping for air. No parent should ever see his or her child die. I wiped my face on mysleeve, and wrapped my little Angela with the bed cover and saw aglimpseof herbareback, which wasbruiseddark with pooled blood. The imagehauntsme to this day.
[7]Her curly hair brushed my cheek as I held her close in a final embrace. I remembered how happy she was to see her golden hair grow back after we stopped medication. I walked silently across the hallway. The door outside was open, and flooded the dark hallway with bright light.Time stopped working, and it stretched and slowed as I held Angela’s cold body. I kept walking towards the door, though my legs felt weak and my pacingunbearablyslow.Lucie saw me, covered her face with her hands andsobbed. Emergency services were ready with a covered stretcher. I stood in front of it for a while, with the weight of the world in my arms.I didn’t want to let her go.
[8]Lucie came and rubbed my shoulder, telling me more with a gentle touch than words ever could, and brought me out of myparalysis. I gently placed our little angel on thestretcher. Lucie and I gave her a last kiss on the forehead. The paramedics wrapped her in a sheet, and in an instant, she was gone. Her body was covered from view, her brightblond curlshidden under the sheet.
[9]Months afterwards, on a freezing cold winter day, I came home late after an overtime shift at work. As soon as I opened the door, the delicious smell of apple pie nearly overwhelmed me. It was the first time Lucie baked since Angela’s death. Warm slices sat on two plates,flankedby glasses of milk. We ate silently at first, then we started to talk about all the good memories we had with Angela, something we hadn’t done much since November. Remembering was difficult and painful at first. Thewoundswere still fresh, but talking made us feel better.I recalled what Angela said about her apple pie, and for the first time in a long while, I smiled.
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