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栀子花开MysteryoftheWhiteGardenia
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佚名Anonymous
Everyyearonmybirthday，fromthetimeIturned12，awhitegardeomyhouseihesda，Md.Noewithit.Callstothefloristwerealwaysinvain—iturchase.AfterawhileIsttodiscovertheseyaediyandheadyperfumeofthatonemagical，perfectwhiteflowerpinktissuepaper.
ButIoppedimaginingwhotheanonymhtbe.Someofmyhappiestmomedaydreamingaboutsomeonewonderfulaingbuttooshyoretriakeknownhisorheridentity.
Mymothertributedtotheseimaginings.She’daskmeiftherewassomeoneforwhomIhaddoneaspeesswhomightbeshore.PerhapstheneighborI’dhelpwhenshewasunloadingacarfullofgroaybeitwastheoldmanacrossthestreetwhosemailIretrievedduriersohewoulduredownhisicysteps.Asateehough，IhadmorefuingthatitmightbeaboyIhadaoronewhohadhoughIdidn’tknowhi
WhenIwas17，aboybrokemyheart.Thenighthecalledforthelasttime，Icriedmyselftosleep.Whehem，therewasamessagesirroriick:“Heartilyknow，whenhalf-godsgo，thegodsarrive.”
IthoughtaboutthatquotationfromEmerstime，anduhealed，Ileftitwheremymotherhadwrittenit.WhenIfitheglasser，mymotherkhingwasallrightagain.
Idon’tremembereverslammingmyderatherandshouting，“Youjustdoand!”
becauseshediduand.
&hbefh-schoolgraduation，myfatherdiedofaheartattack.Myfeelingsrangedfromgrieftoaba，fearandamydadwasmissihemostimportasinmylife.Ibepletelyuedinmyupinggraduation，thesenior-classplayamymother，irief，wouldnothearofmyskippinganyofthosethings.
Thedaybeforemyfatherdied，mymotherandIhadgoneshoppingforapromdress.We’dfouae，withyardsandyardsofdottedSwissieamademefeellikeScarlettO’Hara，butitwasthewrongsize.Whenmyfatherdied，Ifotaboutthedress.
Mymotherdidn’t.Thedaybeforetheprom，Ifoundthatdress—isize—drapedmajesticallyovertheliving-roomsofa.Itwasn’tjustdelivered，stillireseifully，artisticallylovingly.Ididn’tcareifIhada.Butmymotherdid.
&edhertofeellovedaiveandimaginative，imbuedwithaseherewasmagitheworldayeveninthefaceofadversity.Intruth，mymotherwantedhertoseethemselvesmuchlikethegarderohanauraofmagidperhapsabitofmystery.
MymotherdiedtendaysafterImarried.Iwas22yearsold.Thatwastheyearthegardeniasstoppeding.
从我12岁那年起，每年都有人在我生日那天把一枝洁白的栀子花送到家里（马里兰州贝塞斯达镇上），没有卡片，也没有字条。
我多次打电话到花店询问，但总问不出个所以然来——这些花都是用现金支付的。
后来，我就不再追查送花人，只是尽情享受那枝神秘的、用粉红绢纸包扎的雪白花朵的瑰丽和浓郁芳香。
我还是不停地猜测这位匿名送花者。
有时，我最喜欢做的事就是揣测这个人，或许他是一个无比优秀的人，但过于腼腆或者性格古怪，而不愿透露身份。
母亲也和我一起猜测，很多猜想还源于她的点拨。
她会问我，是不是给谁做了件好事，所以人家用这种方式来答谢。
或许是邻居吧，我曾帮她卸下满满一车杂货。
也有可能是马路对面的那位老先生，寒冬时，我帮他取过邮件，这样他就不必冒着滑倒的危险去取了。
然而，正值花季的我，宁愿相信这个人是我喜欢的男孩，或是暗恋我而我浑然不知的某个男生。
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