I was five years old when my little brother, Mark, was born. On the photos, I appeared so thrilled that he had finally arrived. I held and bathed him, smiling from cheek to cheek. I do not remember that feeling now.

Being the first child in the family, I was the one my parents tested their new parenting techniques on. I was their guinea pig. Mark was always the happy one, the joker, the one who won because of my battles with my parents. After too many fights, I declared war on Mark. We were now enemies. All I remember is being jealous of and angry with my innocent little brother.

Thus, I made his life a suffering. I fooled, embarrassed, and fought with him, often leaving him in floods of tears.

Our little sister was born when I was 11 and instantly she and Mark could not be separated. They pushed me aside. Did I grow into an uglier green-eyed monster because they loved each other so much?

Thankfully, Mark quickly grew tall and strong, and our conflict looked more like a cold war than bloodshed. It all ended suddenly when I went to study abroad. The hatred (仇恨) disappeared and love climbed in.

Despite all the abuse Mark suffered he has implied that he has forgiven me, or even that there is nothing to forgive, although I have never brought up the subject in too much detail. I would like to; however, it would be a selfish move to look for more forgiveness. But I prefer to remember the hurt. During all those wasted years, I should have been the loving sister defending instead of attacking.

Traveler

My fifteen-year-old son has just returned from abroad with rolls of exposed film and a hundred dollars in uncashed traveler's checks, and is asleep at the moment. His blue duff e(粗呢) bag lies on the floor where he dropped it. Obviously, he postponed as much sleep a she could:when he walked in and we hugged, his electrical system suddenly switched off, and he headed directly for the bed, where I imagine he be a this old record                    of sixteen hours.

It was his first trip overseas, so weeks before it, I pressed travel books on him, and a tape cassette of useful French phrases; drew up a list of people to visit; advised him on clothing and other things. At the luggage store where we went to buy him a suitcase, he headed for the duffels, saying that suitcases were more for old people.

During the trip, he called home three times:from London, Paris, and a village named Ullapool. Near Ullapool, he climbed a mountain in a rainstorm that almost blew him off. In the village, a man spoke to him in Gaelic, and, too polite to in terr up, my son listened to him for tenor fifteen minutes, trying to nod in the right places. The French he learned from the cassette didn't hold water in Paris. The French he talked to shrugged and walked on.

When my son called, Is at down at the kitchen table and leaned forward and hung on every word. His voice came through clearly, though two of the calls were like ship-lo-shore communication. When I interrupted him with a “Great!” or a “Really?”, I knocked a little hole in his communication. Sol just sat and listened. I have never listened to a telephone so attentively and with so much pleasure. It was wonderful to hear news from him that was so new to me. In my book, he was the first man to and on the moon, and I knew that I had no advice to give him and that what I had already given was probably not much help.

The unused checks are certainly evidence of that. Youth travel slight. No suitcase, not much luggage and a slim expense account, and ye the went to the scene, and came back safely. Is i there amazed. The night when your child returns with dust on his shoes from a country you've never seen is a night you would gladly turn into a week.

A week after my mother’s passing, I found myself published with how to go on with life. When a friend emailed me about a race supporting cancer research, I initially ignored it. It seemed too close to the heart, as cancer was the very disease that had taken my mother away from me. But something about my friend’s words — “I can help organize the whole thing” — stuck with me. I felt I ought to agree.

In the weeks that followed, I gradually re-entered the world of the living. Monitoring our team’s website became a daily routine, and with each donation, a sense of pride welled up inside me. I knew my mom would have wanted it that way, She was the type who never got defeated, It was this very spirit that helped me get by.

When the race ended, I noticed the runners all had one thing in common: There were big smiles on their faces. They made it look so rewarding and effortless. I wanted in. So l enrolled (报名) in another race two months later. Considering I could hardly run a mile, it was truly challenging. But my friend and I made a training plan so I wouldn’t come in last. I followed it seriously and didn’t let anything get in my way.

Running up and down the city’s hills, I was flooded with memories. I had lived there after college and my mother had visited often. I passed Bloomingdale’s, recalling the time she and I had gotten into a screaming argument there. I was about to beat myself up when I remembered what Mom had said after her diagnosis (诊断) of cancer. “I don’t want you to feel guilty about anything.” Her paper-thin hands had held me tightly. A weight lifted from my shoulders. When the race day arrived, I gave it my all for my mom and for all she had taught me and continued to teach me. As I ran, whenever I felt like slowing down, I pictured her cheering me on.

Crossing the finish line, I felt surrounded in her love and a profound sense of peace.