女儿今年获得金奖的一篇描写孩子成长变化的小美文，读完之后有一种令人淡淡的伤感的味道。文章从一个母亲的角度观察女儿成长过程中的变化，简单地通过在一颗橡树上的几个时间点的母女经历生动细腻地描写了女孩子成长的光阴，而这段光阴大概是每个父母都应该经历过的并终身难忘的。
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成长的光阴
我们一起坐在后院一个大橡树上，母亲和女儿，像小孩子一样摆晃着我们的腿。我给你讲述当年我是如何遇见你父亲的故事，而你在听到每个有趣的地方不断傻傻的地笑着。你六岁了，如同一个完美的缩影，生命透过你明亮的眼睛，凌乱而飘逸的长发，闪闪发光。你抓紧我的手，以保持在树上的平衡，我微笑着看着你那紧张的黏在一起的小指头。我们一起吃着冰棍，你的总是樱桃味的而我总是葡萄的味。融化的果汁从你下巴掉滑下来，你微笑的时候，露出你的被染成红色的牙齿。我突然又变成一个吸血鬼，吓得你大声尖叫，我也放声大笑。我对你的爱胜过一切。
你八岁了，我们又坐在同一棵橡树上。你的腿变得更长，上面布满了足球训练之后的花花绿绿的淤青，伤痕。你心不在焉地抠起a脚踝上的一个老结痂。你的头发长长了，性子还和以前一样野。你给我谈起三年级的第一天，你按刻薄顺序列出每一个老师，你扳手指列举出你班上每一个朋友的名字。我跟不上你谈笑的节奏，只是听着你的声音，心满意足的微笑着。这一天是美好的，夏末外面的热浪和野外烧烤的味道在空中弥漫着。我们吃着冰棍，坐在那个橡树的树荫下。我仍然是喜欢的葡萄味的，但你现已经改变，更喜欢蓝莓味的。你进步了一些，不再让融化的果汁从你下巴和手指上滑下来，但你依然还让你的白色T恤衫上印上一个大大的蓝色的污点。你紧紧地握住我的手，支持着使我们我们坐在一起，你的手掌感觉起来软软的，汗津津的。
你的十一岁生日后的第二天，是一个美丽的阳春四月的一天。我们坐在橡树里，折着纸，这是你过去最喜欢干的。你又开始聊起你学校的事情，这次是关于你们班上的一个新男孩。你谈起他的眼睛的颜色，他怎么叫你笨蛋的那种神态。我心里觉得你太年轻了，不该产生暗恋，但我没有说话，只是静静地听着你讲。你又问起你爸爸和我过去的故事，我愉快地又给你讲了一遍。我依然告诉了你同样的故事，和几年前给你讲的一模一样，你还是在那些有趣的地方咯咯地笑了起来。我又吃起另一个葡萄味的冰棍，但这次你拿起的是一整块的Ben & Jerry'牌子的冰淇淋。你开始喜欢Ben & Jerry'牌子中那个纽约超级蒙混块味道的，我让你尽量深吸一口气，因为当巧克力渍粘到的牙上的时候会让我想起来你小时候的样子。当你从树上下来的时候，你拒绝了我的帮助，你小心翼翼从一个树枝下到另一个树枝，眉头紧锁，全神贯注。
你已经坐在橡树上，无聊地，在等着我。你修剪整齐的指甲重重地敲击你的手机屏幕，敲击声淹没了周围昆虫的嗡鸣声，你的长腿静静的垂下，一动不动。你穿着膝盖上故意撕开洞口的牛仔裤，你的头发又直又光。我有点气喘地爬上树和你坐在一起，其间尽量不要让你看见。你十五岁了，这是这一周第一次，我们单独在一起消磨时光。我本想告诉你应该改变一下你衬衫的式样，因为它太过低胸，也想警告你要对你的新男友小心谨慎，还想告诉你要在学校里尽可能地努力功课。但是，看到你时我没有说出这些话，只是问了问你这一天过的怎么样。你对我的回答，简短，而且仅仅几个字，你的视线一直没有离开你手机屏幕。我问你是否要冰淇淋，你不高兴地大声说，冰淇淋会使你发胖。然后，一个迅速简单的动作，你便从树上流畅地跳了下去，一溜烟消失在家里，砰地一声关上你身后的大门。
你十八岁了，我孤单地坐在橡树上。已是深秋，金色的树叶纷飞扬扬地飘下，满满地散落的我周围的地上，空气清晰爽朗。你三个星期前已经去上大学，但失去你的痛苦仍让我历历在目。我心不在焉地抚摸你以前常坐的地方。你已经变得更加聪明美丽，富有智慧，我不能不为你而感到自豪和骄傲。然而，我依然想念你的小手，你膝盖上的跌伤的疤痕，你的声音里的那种腔调，甚至你青少年期那胡思乱想的叛逆神情。无意间，我低头看见我的双手，它们看来皱皱巴巴扭扭曲曲的，我突然似乎觉得它们和我坐的橡树一样苍老了。我舔了一口我的葡萄味的冰棒，并想起了你。记忆不断膨胀起来，泪水夺眶而出。我的手发抖了，融化的果汁滑下我的手腕。你长大了，我变老了。
Nest
We are sitting in a great oak tree in our backyard together, mother and daughter, swinging our legs like little kids. I am telling you a story about how I met your father, and you giggle in all the right places. You are six and the epitome of perfection, with life sparkling in your eyes and messy, flowing hair. You clutch my hand to keep balance on the tree, and I smile at the stickiness of your small fingers. We are both eating popsicles, yours cherry as always and mine grape. The juice dribbles down your chin, and when you smile, your teeth are stained red. I’m a vampire, you scream and I laugh out loud. I love you more than anything.
You are eight, and we sit in the same tree. Your legs have grown longer, covered with a colorful array of bruises and scars from soccer practice. You pick absently at an old scab from your ankle. Your hair is longer now, yet just as wild as it was before. You talk to me about your first day of third grade, listing your teachers in order of how mean they are and ticking off with your fingers the names of your friends in your classes. I lose track of the conversation and smile contently at the sound of your voice. The day is nice and hot, the smell of late summer and barbeque still hanging in the air. We have popsicles sitting in the shade of that oak tree. I still have grape, but you decide you like the blue raspberry better now. You are getting better at keeping the juice from sliding down your chin and fingers, but you still manage to get a huge blue splotch onto your white t-shirt. You hold my hand for support when we get down together, your palms soft and sticky.
It’s a beautiful spring day in April, the day after your eleventh birthday. We sit in the oak tree folding origami, one of your new favorite past times. You chat about school again, and about a new boy in your class. You talk about the color of his eyes and how he calls you stupid in an affectionate manner. I think you are too young to have a crush, but I keep quiet and listen. You ask about the story of your dad and me, and I happily oblige. I tell the same story just as I did years ago, and you still laugh at exactly the right places. I eat another grape popsicle, but this time you hold an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. You like the New York Super Fudge Chunk flavor, and I let you inhale as much as you want, because the way the chocolate stains your teeth reminds me of you when you were younger. You refuse my help getting down from the tree, and carefully climb down each branch on your own, your brow furrowed in concentration.
You are already sitting in the tree, bored and waiting for me. Your manicured nails tap loudly against the screen of your phone, drowning out the lazy buzz of insects, and your long legs are still and unmoving. You are wearing jeans with holes ripped at the knees, and your hair is straight and shiny. I pant a little as I climb up to join you, but try not to let it show. You are fifteen, and this is the first time all week we have spent alone. I want to tell you to change your shirt, which is too low cut, and warn you about your new boyfriend, and ask you to try harder in school. But instead, I ask about your day. You answer my questions in short, brief words, and do not take your eyes from the screen of your phone. I ask if you want ice cream, and you snap that it will make you fat. You jump from the tree in one single, fluid motion, and disappear into house, slamming the door behind you.
You are eighteen, and I sit in the tree alone. It is late autumn, with golden leaves twirling to the ground all around me, the air sharp and brisk. You have gone to college three weeks ago, but the pain of losing you is still fresh in my mind. I absently stroke the spot you used to sit. You turn out to be a beautiful, intelligent person, and I cannot be more proud of you. Yet I still miss your tiny hands, the bruises on your knees, the pitchiness of your voice, and even your cranky teenage attitude. Unconsciously, I stare down at my own hands. They seem wrinkled and distorted, and suddenly I feel as aged as the oak tree I sit on. I lick my grape popsicle and think of you, memories swelling up and tears threatening to overflow. My hand shakes, and juice slides down my wrist. You are grown up, and I am old.
