优秀英语短篇散文：妈妈的小甜饼
Forgotten and Forgiven那天下午，我坐在学校二楼的窗沿上，看着一辆辆过往的汽车，心不断地往下沉。我们班的年终派对将在那天举行，我已经盼了好几个星期了。那个星期，老师还在黑板上弄了个倒计时牌。当这个“派对星期五”到来的时候，我们一班九岁大的孩子兴奋得炸开了锅。
As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that
afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day
I'd looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year
party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week,
and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the
much-anticipated "party Friday" had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie
volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block, and I knew
they'd be a hit with my classmates. But two o'clock passed, and there was no
sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off
their offerings of punch and crackers, chips, cupcakes and brownies. My mother
was missing in action.
"Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be along soon," Miss Pace said as I gazed
forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its
black minute hand shift to half-past.
Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn't budge from my window
watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away, but I stayed out, holding
out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my
rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her
arm.
The three o'clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly
grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house, I plotted my revenge. I would slam the
front door upon entering, refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me,
and vow never to speak to her again.
The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the
refrigerator that might explain my mother's absence, but found none. My chin
quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life,
my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the
front door.
"Robbie," she called out a bit urgently. "Where are you?"
I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room, wondering
where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment, she mounted the steps—the
sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed, I didn't move but
instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
"I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "I just forgot. I got busy and
forgot—plain and simple."
I still didn't move. "Don't forgive her," I told myself. "She humiliated
you. She forgot you. Make her pay."
Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I
could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and
then increased in its velocity and volume.
I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this? I rolled over
and faced her, ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn't laughing at all. She was crying. "I'm so sorry," she
sobbed softly. "I let you down. I let my little boy down."
She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was
dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding, mothers weren't
supposed to. I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when
I'd skinned knees or stubbed toes, times when she knew just the right thing to
say. But in that moment of tearful plight, words of profundity abandoned me like
a worn-out shoe.
"It's okay, Mom," I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair.
"We didn't even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don't cry.
It's all right. Really.'
My words, as inadequate as they sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit
up. She wiped her eyes, and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained
cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly, and she pulled me to her.
We didn't say another word. We just held each other in a long, silent
embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away, I decided
that, this time, I could hold on, perhaps, just a little bit longer.
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