Before Alzheimer’s； my mother never admitted fear or sadness to me。 Now； she became strangely free with her emotions； crying when frightened； expressing anger when furious； and laughing when exhilarated。 As I released my perceptions of who my mother was supposed to be； we both became calmer。
I used everything I could to stay connected to her as she lost the ability to engage in the hallmarks of linear life。 My mother had always loved dancing。 When I came home from work； I’d turn on Tina Turner or Janet Jackson； and we would dance and dance。 I’d play her favorite songs on the piano； and she’d place her hand on top of the old upright and sing each note and every word perfectly。
As my mother’s illness progressed； I saw that I could not provide the care she needed； so I decided to put her in a nursing home。 Now that she’s away； I dread the day when she will no longer know me。 Sometimes she seems lost to me。 But then something happens； such as my wedding。 Even though she expressed no interest； I needed her there。 On my wedding day； she marched in with my father； stepmother；aunts； uncles； and cousins。 She sat behind me； occasionally murmuring in time to the minister’s speech as he poured libations。 When it came time for me to stand。 she looked at me and sang out proudly； “That’s my gal。” I turned to her。 “Yes； Mom； it’s me。 ”
When I visit her in the nursing home； we don’t carry on typical conversations。 Rather； I talk about my day and act out Anansi tales。 Or I massage her arms； shoulders； and hands。 She grabs my arm and cradles it； talking all the while about how she loves babies。 And when I feel like a baby myself； wishing I could just tell all my troubles to my mother and know everything will be all right； she holds my hand tight or pats my head； and I’m forted。
When I tell people； their faces drop。 “You poor thing；” they say。 Perhaps they tell me about loved ones who became unrecognizable as their brains degenerated； ravaged by Atzheimer’s。
Those who pity me； however； do not know the whole story。 While I hate the disease； I have learned to accept and be nurtured by this new Mildred； who still maintains the essence of my mother。 My knowledge of my mother is in my very skin； as is her knowledge of me。 Not even Alzheimer’s can take that away。
食袜蚁（1）
埃玛丽·里尼克
“哎哟！哎哟！”我大声地尖叫着，打乱了跳绳的节奏，脚也被松下来的绳子缠住了。
“鞋里有东西在不停地咬我。”我哭叫着说。
等待跳绳的一年级学生和两个摇绳的人马上将我围在了脏兮兮的操场上。我的老师——贝尔小姐听到我的叫声后，与几个正在休息的老师停止了谈话，匆忙地跑了过来。
“它还在咬我。”我叫道。围观的人让开了一条道，以便能让贝尔小姐进来。
“哪只脚？”她问道。
她俯下身来准备给我检查一下，我抬起了右脚。正当这个时候，我又感到一次新的叮咬，痛得我又一次叫了起来。
“好了，让我们把你的鞋子脱下来。” 贝尔小姐说着，便蹲下身子来脱我的鞋子。
这让我想起了袜子上的破洞。福利袜子穿不了多长时间。大萧条过后的几年里，带有破洞的袜子对我们家而言再普通不过了。每周六，我们都会把干净的纸塞到鞋子里，以此来盖住鞋底的破洞，然而袜子有破洞只好将就着。将袜子往下拉一拉，把破洞口盖住，就不会有人发现了。但是，一旦袜子上有了破洞，脚很快就会起泡。妈妈在每个星期洗衣服时都会说：“虽然我们很穷，衣服破旧不堪，但是我们依然能够穿得干净整洁。”
脚部疼痛难忍，我哭了起来，然而我还是不让贝尔小姐脱掉我的鞋子。我实在不想让她和其他人看到我褪了色的红袜子上的破洞。
“那么，走吧，我们到办公室去。”
一群一年级的孩子跟在我们身后，然而贝尔小姐让他们留在操场上。
我竭尽全力不让泪水流出来，然而每次鞋里的东西叮我的时候，我都会疼得“嗷嗷”叫。眼泪在我痛得扭曲的脸上无声无息地落下。
校长司徒亚特先生也冲进了办公室。
“发生了什么事情？”他问道。
“有东西正在咬她的右脚，然而她又不肯让我把她的鞋子脱下来看一看。”贝尔老师答道。
司徒亚特校长一把把我抱到他的桌子上。“让我看看。”正当他要把我的鞋子脱掉时，我看到了那个破洞。我一把抢过鞋子，迅速穿好，抱住它再也不撒手了。我抱得越紧，那个东西就咬得越厉害。
“为什么你不肯让我们给你脱鞋呢？”校长满脸疑惑地看看我，又转到贝尔小姐身上，最后又看了看我。
正在这时，五年级的老师瓦门菠小姐进来了。“我能帮上什么忙吗？我认识她，她就住在我家的隔壁。”
“我觉得有蚂蚁在她的鞋子里狠咬她，可是她就是不肯让我们把她的鞋子脱掉。”贝尔小姐说。
瓦门菠小姐是一个非常棒的邻居。她有时甚至还和我们一块玩游戏。她双手放在我发抖的肩上，满怀关切地望着我紧张而发红的眼睛。
“噢，是的。”她仿佛记起了什么似的，“我就曾经被那些蚂蚁咬过。你知不知道它们就是‘食袜蚁’呀？在我脱下袜子时，它们已经把袜子的底部几乎全咬光了。”她看着旁边两个大人，不住地点头。“一定是‘食袜蚁’。”她说。
两个大人也点着头，就像他们也曾被“食袜蚁”咬过似的。
“让我来看一看。”说着，她松开了我的鞋。“果然不出我所料，蚂蚁已经把她的一部分袜子吃掉了。”
贝尔小姐打开药品柜，从里面取出一个棉球，蘸了些酒精。瓦门菠小姐把我的鞋和袜子脱掉，放到垃圾桶上抖了起来。两只红色的蚂蚁掉进了垃圾桶，还有一只则掉在了地上，向墙边跑去，然而司徒亚特校长一脚踩住了它。
我的脚已经变肿了，不停地颤抖。这时，胃和头也疼了起来。
瓦门菠小姐一边用棉球擦拭着被蚂蚁咬得红肿的伤口，一边微笑地看着我，“我想，她现在已经没事了。”她边说边望了望身旁的两个大人。
此时，铃声响了，休息时间也宣告结束。“上课时间到了。”话音刚落，校长和贝尔小姐便朝各自的工作岗位奔去。
食袜蚁（2）
伤口处的酒精凉飕飕的。
“让蚂蚁咬了那么长时间，你可真是个勇敢的姑娘。我觉得你还是过一会儿再穿袜子和鞋吧。”老师把我从桌子上扶下来。“放学后，等我一起回家吧。”
自尊就是如此美好而可怕的一件事。我知道瓦门菠小姐为了挽救我的自尊，才编造了那个“食袜蚁”的故事。她明白，我宁可被蚂蚁咬死，也不愿别人知道我的贫困。这位心地善良、有着深刻见解的老师让我懂得要有一颗同情之心。我也尝试着将这颗同情之心带到自己37年的教学生涯中，并将它很好地传递了下去。
有人说“教师是灵魂的工程师”，其实不仅如此，教师有着一颗同情之心，是我们的依靠，正如本文的教师一样，巧妙地化解了学生的尴尬。让我们将这颗同情之心世代相传吧！
Ant Bites
Emmarie Lehnick
“Ow！Ow！” I shouted as I broke my jump rope rhythm and tangled my feet in the slack1 rope．“Something in my shoe is biting me。” I wailed。
The first graders waiting to jump and the two rope turners circled around me on the dirt playground。 My teacher； Miss Bell； heard me and hurried over； leaving the other recess teacher in mid…conversation。
“It’s still stinging me。” I cried as the circle of children opened for Miss Bell。
“Which foot is it？” she asked。
I stuck up my right foot as she stooped over to inspect2 it。 Just then； feeling a new sting； I yelped in pain。
“Here。 Let’s take off your shoe。” instructed Miss Bell； squatting down to get the shoe。
Then； I remembered the holes in my socks。 Welfare socks didn’t last long。 Holes in socks were a mon thing for our family in the years following the Great Depression。 Shoes got fresh paper inserted every Saturday to cover the holes in their soles。 But socks with holes were just accepted。 Socks with holes in the heels got pulled down so the hole wouldn’t show。 Where there was a hole； there would soon be a blister。 Every week as she washed our clothes； Mama would say；“Even if we’re poor and our clothes are worn out。 we can still be clean。 ”
I began to cry from the pain in my foot； but I refused to let Miss Bell take off my shoe。 I could not bear for her and the others to see the hole in my faded red sock。 “e on； then。 Let’s go inside to the office。”
A trail of first graders followed after us until Miss Bell told them to stay on the playground。 I did my best to curb my tears。 Yet； each time the thing in my shoe stung me； I would let out a loud； “Oh； oh； oh！” Tears raced down my contorted3 face。
Mr。 Stewart； the principal； rushed into his office。
“What’s wrong？” he asked。
“Something is stinging her right foot； but she will not let me take off her shoe。 ”said Miss Bell。
Mr。 Stewart lifted me onto his desk。 “Let me take a look。” He just about had the shoe off when I saw the hole。 I grabbed the shoe and pulled it on and held it。 The stinging worsened the tighter I clasped4 the shoe。
“Why won’t you let us take off your shoe？” Mr。 Stewart asked as he looked from me to Miss BelI and back at me in puzzlement。 。。
食袜蚁（3）
Miss Womble； the fifth—grade t