【推荐3】Carmella Parry has lived in her fourth-floor walk-up in Gramercy Park for over 70 years. At 94, she hasn’t been able to leave her home. Her sisters Tessie and Yolanda, also in their 90s, live just a few blocks away, but like tens of thousands of older New Yorkers, they just aren’t able to get out anymore. But Ms. Parry is a little pleased today as she tells some guests how she likes to write a few poems for her sisters now and then. She’ll recite (朗诵) them over the phone, since the sisters do talk every day.

She keeps a lot of handwritten poems in a box. And a few months ago, she received a poem, “Luck” by Langston Hughes, printed on a card that was put into one of her Citymeals on Wheels deliveries.

The poem, which Ms. Parry posted on her refrigerator, is part of Poems on Wheels, a partnership between the Poetry Society of America and Citymeals on Wheels, which delivers poems along with meals to older New Yorkers. The poem cards offer relief from the social isolation (孤独) that many of the city’s homebound seniors experience.

Citymeals delivers more than 2 million meals a year to 18, 000 of New York’s seniors. The program delivers meals on weekends and holidays, when the city does not provide meals. After helping to start New York’s Poems on Wheels in the fall of 2018, the poetry society partnered with other Meals on Wheels members in Los Angeles last October, which reach 2,200 people each month, and plans to start another partnership in San Francisco later this winter, which will reach 3,500 people at least four times a year.

“I’m very moved when I carry out meal deliveries,” says Beth Shapiro, Director of Citymeals on Wheels. “They have outlived family, so a meal coming to the door is very important. But so is the visit. So, seeing a poem that we sent on their refrigerator, or taped to a wall, is just confirmation of the value of not only the food we bring, but the caring that we do as well — it is a true lifeline for so many.”

【推荐1】I am only 12 years old, but I know grief and the fear of death very well.My grandfather has been smoking since he was an ignorant adolescent and now he has a dreadful disease called emphysema that ruins the respiratory(呼吸的） system.

Ever since my grandmother died, my grandfather has been depressed-mad at the world.He is an exceedingly ornery man and has said some hurtful words to nice people who cared about him. Nevertheless when he is around me, it's like a whole soft side of him becomes exposed. For this,I felt fortunate enough to plant tender seeds into his iron- heart.

Recently, my grandfather got very sick, he underwent surgery on his throat and had medicine called a respirator to help him breathe. The doctors thought that his days were numbered, but miraculously he recovered, he was taken off the respirator and still couldn't work.It strained his voice badly to make the slightest noise. While my grandfather was in hospital, my mother and I flew to Pittsburgh to keep him company. On the way,fear that we would not see him again enveloped us.When we reached my grandfather's hospital room, I was shocked by his condition,his wrinkled face deadly pale. He was hardly able to even grunt somehow, though he managed to mumble“ I you”.

“You what grandpa?” , I purred.It seemed that he didn't have any energy to answer me With great difficulty,he had exhausted all his strength with those two syllables(音节）

The next morning my mother and I were obliged to leave, but I kept wondering just what it was he had tried so desperately to tell me. It was not until I was back home in Georgia that I learned what he had tried to say.A week after we returned home, my family received a phone call from one of the nurses in the hospital,and she told us that my grandfather had said :“Call my granddaughter and tell her love.”At first I was a little confused, thinking why he would just say love, why not I love you, then it hit me the day we were in the hospital——he'd been trying to say I love you. I was really touched. I felt as if I was going to cry and I did after many painful weeks.Fortunately,my grandfather was ultimately able to talk. I called him every night. Normally he had to stop after about 5 minutes because he was so weak.No matter what, though, every time we hung up he would say I love you and I'd do anything for you. Along with his moving words, you're my only reason I live are the best compliments I have ever received.

My grandfather is very ill and I know our time is limited, I feel very honored that he has shared his true feelings with me, I have learned a lot from his experience particularly the most significant thing is a simple I- love -you, it's really not simple，not just meaning caring,showing compassion or strengthening family bonds.It means a temperamental(性情的） inspiration and spiritual power that encourages the loved to break through their shackles(桎梏）of living.

【推荐3】For a long time, I kept a selection of books on a shelf next to my bed that I called my “heart books”. To qualify for a place on the shelf, a book had to be not only one I loved, but one that mattered. There was one book that never made it onto that shelf, though I read it in high school: Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg.

I can still remember the day I bought it. It was summer and I must have been 14 or 15. Desperate to get out of my house, I rode my bike into town and walked into the bookstore. I was going through the shelf of books on writing and it caught my eye. I picked it up, read a few pages, and bought it. Then I took it with me to a park, read the first few chapters, and opened my notebook to write.

It’s a fairly straightforward writing book. Goldberg’s method is simple: you choose a topic, set a timer, and write for 10, 15, or 20 minutes without picking up your pen. Free writing, timed writing, writing topics: anyone who has taken a creative writing class may have encountered these things. It’s not earth-shattering. There was nothing particularly new or unusual about the book so I can’t say why it attracted me so much. But it changed everything. I went from being someone who enjoyed writing to being a writer.

During my teen years and early twenties, following Goldberg’s method was at the core of my identity. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I filled notebooks. When I eventually started writing fiction, I did the same thing. The “I” in my notebooks became someone else, but I held to the same practice.

This writing practice led me to a writing group in Boston. It led me to my current career. It led me, in so many ways, to myself. Becoming a writer allowed me to become so many other things: an activist, a business owner, a farmer, a baker. . . Writing is where I found my confidence. It was where I became curious about the world. From that, everything else has followed.

【推荐1】Today I had to go to work with my crutches (拐杖). I was worried about using my crutches. People would think I was looking for attention, judge me because I was overweight or think I didn’t need then. I kept asking my husband, “Is this odd?” He replied, “I don’t know what kind of pain you’re in.” I accepted that. He didn’t know. I couldn’t assume anything. I had to do what was best for me.

Six months ago, I was in the emergency room twice for unbearable pain in my hips (臀部) and down my left leg. I couldn’t stand, walk or sit. The doctors declared it sciatica (坐骨神经痛) and ordered physical treatment, which did help.

But since the sciatic attack, I have been suffering from pain. I had to stay at home from work because I could barely get out of bed. I was not sure what was going on, but I knew that there were days when I needed help.

I used crutches because my hips ached with every move. The doctor agreed the crutches would keep me upright and would help me keep moving when I didn’t want to or couldn’t move.

On weekdays, I had to stand for hours sometimes, I spent the weekends packing boxes and carrying things down stairs because we were moving to another apartment. We didn’t get everything packed in time for the move, so now we had to finish up.

I overworked my body, so my crutches came with me to work today. Some people remembered my first sciatic attack and offered to help with stuff. Others forgot and were shocked that just yesterday, I wasn’t using crutches, but today I was. My boss assigned me tasks that I couldn’t do today, but my student assistant offered to help. At lunch, when I lay on the floor of my office and took a rest, no one laughed at me.

Tonight I have to do more packing and more loading. I’m grateful for my crutches. I can have an easy laugh and make jokes about the pain—oh, you know that sciatica, undiagnosed repeated pain!