I sat in the breakfast corner with my four-year-old son, Matthew, trying to ignore the ache in my stomach. I was still recovering from a surgery. I hoped for strength and happiness. But the future seemed so hopeless.

Matthew jumped up from his spot on the kitchen floor. “Bird!” he shouted, rushing to the sliding door. Sure enough, there was a white dove seated on a rubber tree. It sat there a few moments, and then flew away. I’d never seen one in our neighborhood before.

When I dragged myself to the kitchen the next morning, the dove was back. This time it was with a mate carrying twigs (嫩枝), “Look, Matthew,” I said, pointing to the tree. “They’re going to make a nest.” The doves flew in and out of the courtyard all week, building on the top of the rubber tree. Matthew could hardly contain his excitement. Every morning, he’d run into the kitchen and take his spot by the sliding glass door, talking to the birds while they worked. As much as I was grieving (感到悲伤), I couldn’t help but look forward to the doves’ visits too. We watched their progress as if it were a real-life soap opera unfolding before us. Gradually, my pain disappeared, replaced by joy.

Then it all went wrong. The courtyard was a safe enough spot for a nest, but the rubber tree’s broad, thin leaves were far from stable. One night, a strong wind blew through, throwing the doves’ nest to the ground. I heard the twigs break apart. Nothing good ever lasts. I wouldn’t blame the doves if they never came back. But they returned. And they paid no attention to the pi le of sticks that had once been their nest. They started again from scratch, though the wind destroyed all their hard work. The next day, and the next, they renewed their efforts, as if nothing had happened.

Paragraph 1: I knew I had to do something for the poor creatures.

Paragraph 2:“The birds were back!” Matthew announced.

I was always afraid of water. This fear could not be explained, but I knew that the moment I stepped near any body of water, my legs would turn to jelly (果冻). I would imagine myself drowning in the water and thrashing around (乱扑腾) helplessly. That was why I had never gone into a swimming pool until swimming became a school requirement. My school wanted all pupils to pass a swimming test, and if they could not, then they would have to attend weekly swimming lessons in school, which made me tremble.

Thus, my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the pool near my house. With great unwillingness, I attended those weekly lessons, and each one was great suffering for me. I was naturally clumsy, and my fear of water did not help at all. Every lesson, I would be spending my time thrashing about in the water, while my classmates would be swimming countless laps effortlessly and even turning over like dolphins in the water. How was I going to pass the test at this rate?

In my swimming class, there was an exceptionally athletic girl. Tall and muscular, her name was Kathy. She was the best swimmer in our class and always looked at me with disdain (鄙视), especially when I thrashed about hopelessly in the water.

Once, after a particularly long and hard swimming lesson, I spotted Kathy swimming gracefully in the pool. Gathering my courage, I asked gently, “Kathy, can you teach me to swim?” She stared at me coldly. It was as if I stood at the edge of an endless ocean of inadequacy, my fears appearing like dark storm clouds threatening to drown me. Yet, in that moment, a glimmer of hope flashed within me, a desperate longing for guidance and acceptance. Would Kathy’s icy exterior (外表) melt under the warmth of empathy, or would I remain forever thrashing in the sea of my own fears?

To my surprise, she nodded after a few moments of silence.

“Congratulations!” Kathy said when she learnt I had passed the swimming test.

Every day, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Abigail would go over to look at herself in the mirror, thinking the same thing: I am just so ... ordinary.

It all started once she entered middle school, where her grades in all subjects were OK but not great, and she couldn’t sing or dance that well, or play sports. She wasn’t even good at making jokes as she was so shy.

As she continued to go down the same mind spiral of “you’re not good enough, what kind of job could you get in the future being someone so ordinary?”, she checked the clock and rushed out the door to get to school on time.

Along the way, she saw Peter walking ahead of her. As one of the class’s top students, he was just so smart and dedicated. Peter always stayed behind after math class to continue working on the equations. He was so obsessed and talented.

A few mornings later in class, something seemed a bit off with Abigail’s teacher, Mr Fry. He was normally quite active, moving quickly from the whiteboard to the podium (讲台) to explain some new knowledge points. But that morning, Abigail noticed that he seemed slower, not very with it. Then, as he asked the students to copy down a math equation, Mr Fry began shaking and then started to fall. Immediately, Abigail rushed from her seat in the fourth row, managing to catch him just in time. He had fainted. “Someone go get the head teacher now!” yelled Abigail in a loud, clear voice. Fifteen minutes later, Abigail and her classmates watched out the classroom window at Mr Fry being wheeled across the parking lot on a stretcher (担架) to be put into an ambulance.

After two weeks off, Mr Fry was back, entering the classroom again to a round of applause from the students. His presence brought a sense of relief and normalcy to the room, easing their worry about his sudden illness.

As soon as the lunch bell rang, Mr Fry pulled Abigail aside.

“Extraordinary”, the word echoed in Abigail’s mind as she walked home from school that day.

I can’t stop thinking about watermelons. Giant juicy wonderful watermelons. I’ve saved my money to buy my own, one all forme. Mom says I can’t eat a whole chocolate cake by myself because it’s bad for me and I’ll get sick. But a watermelon? It’s fruit. It’s good for me. I’m gonna eat it all up, except for the seeds.

At the store I look for the biggest, the juiciest, the most wonderful one I can find. And there it is, right behind some   cantaloupes. Er . . . oomph. I pickup my watermelon and put it on the floor. I roll it down the aisle. I roll my treasure to     the checkout line. The grocery clerk lifts my watermelon for the cashier to weigh. Fifteen pounds! After I pay, the clerk     sets it back on the floor forme. I roll it out the door, then along the sidewalk, three blocks to my house. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the watermelon. I roll it into the kitchen.

“Lucy! What are you doing with that watermelon?” Mom asks.

“I saved up my money and bought it at the grocery store. I’m going to eat it all by myself.” Mom frowns.     “You’ll get sick,” she warns. “No, I won’t. It’s fruit. It’s good for me,” I tell her. “Please?” Ibeg. “I’ve been saving for it.” Mom thinks about it, then smiles as if she knows something. “OK, but only if you eat it outside,” she says. I roll my giant, juicy, wonderful watermelon out the back door to our picnic table. Mom brings out a Knife and some paper plates. My sister follows her.

“Ooh, watermelon,” she says. “I want some.” “Sorry,” I tell her. “I’m gonna eat it all by myself.”

“Mom!” she whines. “Your sister saved her money and bought it herself. She decides what to do with it.”

My brother comes out next. “Oh, yum, watermelon,” he says. “Can I have some?”

“Noway,” I tell him. “I’m gonna eat it all by myself.” “Mom!” my brother howls.

“It’s your sister’s watermelon. She decides.”

“You can’t eat that all by yourself,” he challenges. “Yes, I can!” I replied.

Mom cuts the watermelon into four pieces, then cuts each of those in half. Eight pieces total. I reach for my first piece   and take a bite. Red juice runs down my chin. My father comes out. “Oh, watermelon!” he says, seeing it. “Don’t even ask,” says my brother. “She won’t share,” my sister adds.

Para.1: The four of them stand together around the picnic table, watching me.

Para.2: I suddenly feel greedy. I’m the only one having fun.

Mrs. Green in Room 301

The notice was posted next to the mailboxes in the apartment building I’d just moved into in Brooklyn, New York. “A Mitzvah for Mrs. Green,” it read. “Sign up to drive Mrs. Green in Room 301 from her chemotherapy(化疗) treatments twice a month.”

Since I wasn’t a driver, I couldn’t add my name, but the word “mitzvah” lingered in my thoughts. It means “to do a good deed”. According to my grandmother, it also had another meaning. This was the one she was always pointing out to me because she noticed how shy I was about letting people do things for me. “Linda, it’s a blessing to do a mitzvah for someone else, but sometimes it’s a blessing to let another person do something for you.”

Three weeks later, on the night of taking my final exam, the snow was falling steadily for hours. Pride would not let me knock on a door and say, “It’s a 10-minute ride by car but a long wait for the bus, and it’s a 30-minute bus ride, so could you possibly give me a lift to school?” So I trudged (艰难地走) to the bus stop. For an hour, I prayed desperately that a bus would come. Then I gave up. The wind at my back pushed me toward home and I seemed to hear Grandma’s whisper: Ask someone for a lift! It could be a mitzvah. That idea had never really made sense to me. And even if I wanted to ask someone for a good deed, there wasn’t a soul on the street.

But as I pushed the door of my apartment building open, I found myself face to face with a woman at the mailbox. In that split second, desperation overcame pride, “Could you possibly give me a lift?” I hurriedly said, feeling quite awkward and uncomfortable, “I never ask anybody for a lift, but...” An odd look crossed the woman’s face, and I added, “Oh! I live in Room 401. I moved in recently!”

Then, without hesitation, she said, “Of course.”

Back home, I happened to know Grandma Alice was Mrs. Green!