One night, the girl caught ill. In moment of fluster, instead of calling her parents, she dialed the new boy’s cell phone. The boy was already asleep but his cell phone was still on.
Later, the girl asked the boy: “Why don’t you turn your cell phone off at night?”
The boy answered: “I’m afraid that if you need anything at night and aren’t able to find me, you’ll worry.”
The girl finally married the boy.
Later at night, do you turn off your cell phone?
今天，朋友问我一个问题，晚上的时候你关机吗？不关机，那你是为谁呢？
我一向不关机，但是为了什么呢？我不知道，后来我看了一篇文章，我有点明白了，只为了那丝牵挂。现在我把它拿出来与大家分享。
女孩每天临睡会先关掉手机，然后把它放在写字台自己的相架前，这个习惯从买了手机的时候就这样保持着。
女孩有个很要好的男朋友，两个人不见面的时候，就打打电话或发发短信，大家都喜欢这样的联络方式。
有一天夜里，男孩很想念女孩子，打了过去却关机，因为女孩已经睡下了。第二天，男孩对女孩说：“以后晚上不要关机，好么？我想你的时候找不到你，心会不安。”
从那以后，女孩开始另一种习惯——整夜都不关机。因为害怕他打来自己会因睡死而听不到，女孩夜夜都很警醒，人便日渐消瘦。然而，慢慢地，两个人之间还是有了裂痕。
女孩很想挽回即将分手的局面，便在一个深夜里给男孩打电话，回答她的却是很好听的女声：“对不起，你所拨打的电话已关机。”
于是女孩知道，她的爱情已经关机。
很久以后，女孩有了另一场爱情。虽然两个人在一起的感觉也很好，但女孩怎么也不肯嫁。女孩的心里还是会想起那个男孩的话和那个关机的夜。
女孩还是保持着整夜不关机的习惯，只是不再期待它会响起。
一天夜里，女孩身染急症，慌乱之中把本想拨给父母的电话拨到了新的男友那里。男孩早已睡下，但手机还开着。
后来女孩问这个男孩：“为什么深夜还不关机？”
男孩说：“我怕你夜里有事找不到我，会心慌。”
女孩最终嫁给了这个男孩。
夜深了，你的手机关了吗？
Children’s Gifts孩子的礼物
It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third graders eagerly anticipated the great day of gifts giving.
A tree covered with tinsel and gaudy paper chains graced one corner. In another rested a manger scene produced from cardboard and poster paints by chubby, and sometimes grubby, hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it on the straw in the cardboard box that served as the Young Jesus. It didn't matter that you could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed, golden-haired dolly say: “My name is Susie.” “But Jesus was a boy baby!” One of the boys proclaimed. Nonetheless, Susie stayed.
Each day the children produced some new wonder—strings of popcorn, hand-made trinkets, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung in the ceiling. Through it all she remained aloof watching from a far, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the festivities would appeal to her. But nothing did. We made cards and gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles and vied with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. “You put them in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch what happens inside. But you don't fry them too long or they break.” So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students a little pouch for carrying their fried marbles. And I knew they had each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes pasted together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies, hand-fringed, of course.
The day of gift-giving finally came. We oohed and handed over our handiwork as the presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I had made a special pouch for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wall of isolation she had built around herself.
After school the children left in little groups, chatting about the great day yet to come when long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appear beside their trees at home. She lingered, watching them bundle up and go out the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to catch my breath, hardly aware of what was happening, when she came to me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightly soiled, as though it had been held many times by unwashed, childish hands. She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a weak smile. She said not a word, but nodded her head. I took the box and gingerly opened it. There inside, glistening green, a fried marble hung from a golden chain. Then I looked into that elderly eight-year-old face and saw the question in her dark brown eyes. In a flash I knew -- she had made it for her mother, a mother she would never see again, a mother who would never hold her or brush her hair or share a funny story, a mother who would never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. A mother who had taken her own life just three weeks before.
I held out the chain. She took it in both her hands, reached forward, and secured the simple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back then as if to see that all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and the tarnished golden chain, then back at the giver. I meant it when I whispered," Oh, Maria, it is so beautiful. She would have loved it.” Neither of us could stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and we wept together. And for that brief moment I became her mother, for she had given me the greatest gift of all: herself.
那是1961年的圣诞节。我在俄亥俄州的一个小镇上教小学三年级。班上27个孩子都在积极参加“礼物赠送日”的活动。
教室的一角被一棵树装点得熠熠生辉，树上缀满了金银丝帛和华丽的彩纸。教室的另一角是一个涂着海报油彩由纸板制成的马槽，这出自孩子们那胖乎乎、脏兮兮的小手。有人带来了一个娃娃，把它放在纸板槽里的稻草上(假装小耶稣)。只要拉拉它身上的一条细绳，这个蓝眼睛、金发的娃娃就会说道：“我叫苏西”，不过这都没有关系。一个男孩提出：“耶稣可是个小男孩呀!”不过苏西还是留了下来。
每天孩子们都会做点儿新玩意——爆米花串成的细链子、手工做的小装饰品和墙纸样做的德国式风铃，我们把这些风铃挂在了天花板上。但自始至终，她都是孤零零地远远观望，仿佛是隔了一道几里长的障碍。我猜想着这个沉默的孩子发生了什么事，原来那个快乐的孩子怎么突然变得沉默寡言起来。我希望节日的活动能吸引她，可还是无济于事。我们制作了许多卡片和礼物，准备把它们送给爸爸妈妈、兄弟姐妹、祖父母和身边的同学。学生们在家里做了当时很流行“油炸”玻璃弹子，并且相互比着，要把最好看的拿来。“老师，把玻璃弹子放在热油锅里，让它们烧热，然后看看里面的变化。但不要炸得时间过长否则会破裂。”所以，我给每个学生做了一个装“油炸弹子”的小袋作为礼物送给他们。我知道他们每个人也都为我做了礼物：仔细剪裁、着色，或已粘集成串的书签；贺卡和特别绘制的图片；透明的镶边碗碟垫布，当然是手工编制的流苏。
