When I was about ten years old, my brother and I received a wonderful gift—tennis rackets(网球拍)and balls, which was exciting, for we had never played tennis. However, there was no tennis court in the small town where we lived. One Saturday morning my brother excitedly suggested playing tennis against the school building. I agreed immediately, not realizing what a lesson we would learn.

When we reached the school ground, no one was around. We began hitting our balls against the school building. We took turns hitting the ball back and forth, soon becoming pretty good at it and hitting higher and faster. Suddenly, something unthinkable happened—the ball got out of control and went crashing through one of the upstairs windows. We looked around and no one was in sight except an old man sitting on a porch halfway down the block.

Quietly, I asked my brother what to do. He looked around again. After confirming no one saw us, except that old man but he probably didn’t know who we were anyway, he suggested leaving secretly. “But should we tell Dad and Mum?” I asked again. A flash of worry came across his face. He was confused too. Carefully considering whether we should tell what had happened, we finally decided to pick up the rest of our balls and headed for home quietly.

Our mother was always in tune with her children. “What happened?” She asked as soon as she saw us. Looking into her eagle eyes, we had to admit what we had done. Hearing that, my mother screamed, “Oh, my goodness!” but soon calmly asked us to tell it to Dad. The moment Dad walked in the house, we both hurried to him and poured out our story. His response was typical. “Well, next Monday, I will call the school doorkeeper and see what we need to do. You will probably have to pay for the window.” We had two terribly worrying days to wait until our Dad got home from work on Monday.

Dad stepped into the house, looking quite tired and serious.

He could see our relief as he continued.

When I was about four years old, I started washing my face on my own. However, I always ignored the area behind my ears on purpose though my mom would often remind me.

One summer, in July of that year, my mom drove me to my grandparents’ house for our annual summer holiday visit. When we arrived, I was told that Grandma had gone on a trip with her friends and wouldn’t be back for another two weeks. Feeling a bit down, I went to the yard to play while my mom and grandpa caught up on some things. Although I couldn’t hear their conversation clearly, I had a strong feeling they were talking about me based on their gestures and expressions. Later, my mom returned home, and she would come back to pick me up two months later.

After dinner that night, Grandpa asked me to take a bath before going to bed. Since I loved taking baths, I happily agreed. With the bathtub (浴缸) filled with water, Grandpa reminded me, “Just make sure you clean the area behind your ears really well. You wouldn’t want potatoes to start growing there, would you?”

“Potatoes?” I stopped in my tracks and turned back to look at him. “Yes, potatoes. If you don’t clean the dirt behind your ears, potatoes might actually sprout (发芽) and grow there,” he explained, causing my eyes to widen in surprise. “But I don’t have any potatoes behind my ears, Grandpa,” I said as I ran my fingers along the back of my ears. He took a quick glance and replied, “Oh, I see a couple of sprouts: starting right there!” He urged me to get into the bathtub immediately and scrub (擦洗) them away thoroughly.

I nodded, still in disbelief. This was the first time I had ever heard such a thing. Why hadn’t my parents warned me about this before? I wondered, but couldn’t find an answer. Nonetheless, I felt shocked by Grandpa’s warning.

I hurried to jump into the bathtub, carefully scrubbing behind my ears.

“What are you looking at behind your ears?” Grandma asked me curiously.

TALK TO ME

Mom was having a surgery on her throat. She had lost her voice four years before. Mom loved writing and was a popular newspaper columnist among the online circles.

“We really believe you’ll get your voice back. The surgery will work. Right, Mom?” I stared into Mom’s eyes, eager for a positive answer. Expressionless, Mom lifted her eyes from her laptop and pulled out one of the post—its that were stuck to the plastic case of the LCD display. It said “Yes”. I pursed my lips.

Her eyes fell back to her laptop. She didn’t smile, and she didn’t even look at me while raising the post—it in front of me as if she didn’t care at all. But I did. I was desperate to hear her speak again. She meant the world to me.

But Mom was not in the least excited about getting her voice back, because it was her third surgery and the last two didn’t work out. She was hopeless.

“Dad will be here soon,” I told Mom. She shrugged.

Just then Dr Smith entered the ward. “Relax, Lisa. There’s a good chance that your mom can speak after the surgery,” he comforted me. And I nodded with a forced smile. After two nurses wheeled Mom away to the operating room, I sat outside as the surgery went on. Resting my elbows on my knees, I buried my head in my hands, praying for the surgery to go well.

Mom had developed throat cancer. When she woke up one morning as a mute, I cried my eyes out though I was tired of her continually lecturing me about my improper behavior. Being unable to hear her voice was heart—breaking. Worse still, she no longer smiled at Dad and me and stopped giving us those morning hugs I always looked forward to. I couldn’t bear seeing her like this, so helpless, so quiet. All those post—its saying “I love you”, “I miss you”… had lost their meanings. Recalling all this, I couldn’t help weeping.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Dad and I held Mom’s hands until she woke up.