When I told my father that I was moving to Des Moines, Iowa, he told me about the only time he had been there. It was in the 1930s, when he was an editor of the literary magazine of Southern Methodist University（SMU）in Dallas, Texas. He also worked as a professor at SMU, and there was a girl student in his class who suffered from a serious back disease. She couldn't afford the operation because her family was poor.

    Her mother ran a boardinghouse in Galveston, a seaside town near Houston, Texas. She was cleaning out the attic（阁楼）one day when she came across an old dusty manuscript（手稿）. On its top page were the words, “By O. Henry”. It was a nice story, and she sent it to her daughter at SMU, who showed it to my father. My father had never read the story before, but it sounded like O. Henry, and he knew that O. Henry had once lived in Houston. So it was possible that the famous author had gone to the beach and stayed in the Galveston boardinghouse, and had written the story there and left the manuscript behind by accident. My father visited an O. Henry expert at Columbia University in New York, whoauthenticatedthe story as O. Henry's.

My father then set out to sell it. Eventfully, he found himself in Des Moines, meeting with Gardner Cowles, a top editor at the Des Moines Register. Cowles loves the story and bought it on the spot. My father took the money to the girl. It was just enough for her to have the operation she so desperately needed.

My father never told me what the O. Henry story was about. But I doubt that it could have been better than his own story.

    It began years ago, after Mom had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. As her symptom 1, I often had a hard time figuring out what was real and what wasn't in her2. One day I was helping her find some pants that fitted, and she was 3 them on and looking in the mirror. Suddenly she turned and said,4 to her reflection in the mirror, “Well, I like her. She is always really nice to me.”

    It caught me so off guard. There we were doing 5 things, and suddenly she was talking about her reflection as if it were another person. How should I 6? I looked closely, as if there was going to be someone else in that mirror, saying, “Great. I am so glad she's 7to you.”

    Though still in 8 I knew there was no point bringing someone with Alzheimer's back to 9It wasn't, until later that I could 10 that the lady in the mirror was real to Mom.

    Another time I walked in, finding Mom 11 I was going to leave when Mom woke up. “Hi Mom, it's me, Molly, your daughter.” Since Mom may or may not 12 me when we meet, I always identify myself to her.

    That day she remembered me. She 13 my arm slightly and said, “Hi, honey. Come here, I want you to meet someone 14 she leaves.” And so I was reintroduced to the lady in the mirror. I 15 her as if someone were really there, and that was 16for Mom.

    I am glad she loves her17 because she sees herself as a kind being. This is yet another18 my mother has taught me: We should love ourselves and others with the kind of 19 my mom has for her lady in the mirror, even though she doesn't know she is seeing herself, my beautiful, loving, and 20 Mom.

    I was really nervous this year because I was in a new class. It1me that I didn't know anyone in the class, But 2I didn't know anyone. I had the 3to do something I love- people watching.

    The girl sitting behind me was always laughing and talking happily. She was one of the very few people who made any4 to acknowledge me.

    At the end of the year, we were5to do a big open-ended project where the6were basically to read something, then watch something related to it, and then7a presentation based on what we learned.

    On the presentation day, that girl8 in front of the class, and told everyone how she had read about eating disorders, because she herself had9with one. As it was too difficult for her to talk about it10, she had made a movie, where she had11some people about their eating disorders and how they had felt and12them eventually. After the presentation, almost13was in tears. Several people commented on how 14she was to stand up and talk about it, and how strong she was to have got over the disorder.

    I never15she would have a problem like that because she always seemed16. Her courage to talk about something so17in public and her strength to get through her difficulties have18me. I've also learned how difficult it is to19people. You never know what type of person someone is just by20for a term.

    When Meghan died in a car accident at the age of sixteen, Colleen Keefe together with another friend wrote the following to remember her:

    When I heard the news of you 1 us so soon, all I could do was hug my blanket to me. On my way down to 2 your mom and dad, I realized I needed to give you a 3 of me. I could not cut out my heart, even though it is 4 at this time. So I give to you, my friend, a piece of my blanket in the 5 of a heart. Attached to it is a(n) 6 of the three of us—you, me and Shauna.

    Now, I have to 7 that this blanket was given to me by my grandfather, who is in heaven with you. He will 8 the blanket. He might not recognize my picture, as he has been gone for over fourteen years. But don't be 9--he's really a teddy bear. Give him a big hug and a kiss 10 me, and tell him I said to take care of you. He will 11.

    Now that we know you are being taken 12 of, we can move on with our lives. We found out that one who received your organ（器官）donation is doing 13. Even in your 14 you have helped others. We will be seeing your family soon, and staying in 15 with everyone.

    Good-bye, my friend, we16 you already. You will never be 17 from our thoughts. Give us a nudge（轻推）when we are heading in the 18 direction and, of course, keep “dancing”.

    Every time I 19 my blanket around me I will 20 your presence. Stay warm.

    Yesterday evening I was watching the evening news on television. The news was about a1for scientific discoveries. The announcer, whose name was Ralph Story,2something that caught my 3. "All great discoveries," he said, "are made by people between the age of twenty-five and thirty." Being a little over thirty myself, I wanted to 4with him. Nobody wants to think that he is past the age of making any 5. The next day I went to the public library, spending several hours looking up the 6 of famous people and their discoveries. Ralph was right.

    First I looked at some of the 7discoveries. One of the earliest, the famous experiment that8that bodies of different weight 9at the same speed, was made by Galileo(伽利略) when he was 26. Madam Curie(居里夫人) started her research that led to a Nobel Prize when she was 28. Einstein(爱因斯坦) was 26 when he10his world-changing theory of relativity. Well, 11of that. Yet I wondered if those "best years" were true in other 12.

    Then how about 13? Surely it needed the wisdom of age to make a good leader. Perhaps it 14, but look when these people 15their careers. Winston Churchill(丘吉尔) was elected to the House of Commons at the age of 26. Abraham Lincoln(林肯) 16the life of a country lawyer and was elected to the government at what age? Twenty-six.

    But why don't best years come after thirty? After thirty, I 17most people do not want to take risks or try new ways in their lives. Then I thought of those famous people18Shakespeare and Picasso. The former one was writing wonderful 19at the late age of fifty, 20the latter was still trying new ways of painting when he was ninety! Perhaps there is still hope for me.

    "What kind of stuff do you write?'' one student asked on my first day at the University of Massachusetts. After a decade away from the classroom, I was back to1.

    "I write creative nonfiction," I said, "as you'll be doing.”

    It was a2. I couldn't remember when I'd last written a3essay. But it must have been before my mother fell ill, leaving me feeling my family story wouldn't end4. It seemed that nothing I wrote could change that.5I couldn't write my own stories, I could6my students to tell theirs. "You're going to keep a7in this class, and I want you to tell your stories like they8."

    "Why do they matter? ^" a boy named Michael asked. Looking out at the roomful of students, I9. No one said a word. Many of them, I learned, worked while in school. Most didn't know their stories did matter. They didn't even realize their stories were as10as their own lives.

    Finally, I looked at Michael. "They matter because they're what you have. Stories allow us to make meaning of what we've11I said. Michael didn't look12, but he didn't challenge me, either.

    In his first essay, Michael wrote about how his high school English teacher seeing his13and helped him fill out a college14. I had Michael read his essay out loud. After he finished, the class went so15that we could hear the sound of each other's16. I looked at him and saw a small17in his dark eyes. Then, I said, "That's why you tell your stories."

    I went home that night and18my journal from where it lay, dusty and19. For the first time in months, I had to20.