It was in the middle of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park that Amanda Barrows carefully placed a wooden nightstand (床头柜) on the ground. She attached a big sign reading, “Take a poem, leave a poem.”

Out of curiosity, an endless stream of tourists gathered to take a closer look. “It’s completely unexpected,” said Barrows, a park ranger (管理员) by day and a poet by night. “I’m really taken aback by the outpouring of support. And even if poetry isn’t really your thing, you might find enjoyment in reading something with a humorous bent.”

Since childhood, Barrows has been fond of poetry and is able to recite many famous poems. Later, due to various reasons, she did not specialize in this field, but she remains steadfast in her love for poetry.

It is admirable that she insists on creating her own works and is willing to make friends through poetry. Barrows has always considered herself a writer, so she enrolled in a class called Poetry for the People. The final project of the class is to find a way to “bring poetry into the community”. In fact, Barrows expects to start a club about poetry because she knows that lots of kids love poetry.

At first Barrows struggled to land on an idea. Eventually, she realized that she could combine her love for parks and her love for poetry. A coworker gave Barrows a weathered nightstand. She thought it would be the perfect tool for her project.

The poetry nightstand reminded her of Little Free Libraries. That project features bookstands stationed across the city. People can leave and take books from little libraries. She only had a single nightstand to work with, so Barrows decided that she would leave it in a park for four days before moving it to a new location. San Francisco’s Recreation and Park Department manages about 220 parks, and Barrow’s goal is to bring the poetry nightstand to all of them.

On the first day, Barrows made thorough preparations and arrangements.

Barrows was surprised by the positive feedback and engagement.

“Did you hear what I said?” The band director was looking right at me. So was everyone else. “Yes, ma’am. You want me to do the solo (独奏) at the concert.” I said, trying to hide my fear.

I play the jazz saxophone (萨克斯管). I’m the best player in the sax section of my middle school band; I even do concerts with the senior high band. So, what’s my problem? Stage fright. Performing with a group is no problem. Butraying solo? I will freeze like a water balloon in deep space.

The band director continued, “By the way, the director of the Youth Symphony will be there. You know, if he hears someone who’s really good, he invites them to audition (试演).” I tried to look calm as I headed to the door, but the rock in my stomach had just doubled in weight. I’d dreamed of playing in the Youth Symphony for a long time but never had the courage to audition. I could pretend to be sick and stay home. But there are only two concerts each year, and missing one would be really a great pity.

“What should I do?” I went back home and headed downstairs. I usually practice in the basement. The family calls it Kevin’s Dungeon (地牢). I play great in the dungeon. It’s comfortable down there—just me, my sax, and my music. “Why can’t the school auditorium feel like my dungeon?” I said to myself. Then an idea occurred to me—how about sticking a photo of my dungeon inside the bell of my sax? Looking at it while playing might work for me. I immediately took action and practised and practised.

The day finally came. Suddenly, the lights went down, the curtain went up, and we were off and running. Each song started and ended, but it was like somebody else was playing my sax, not me. Then it was time—my solo.

I stood up and walked to the front of the stage.

With the last long note ending, the audience burst into applause.

Near daybreak the previous day, my friend Jess and I set out on a journey southwest from our snow-covered home in Ottawa, bound for Arizona, a warm place to escape the freezing winter. After loading our equipment and my dog Bailey into my old car, we drove along the freeway with the radio playing lively tunes. Bailey, comfortably sitting on the back seat, added to the joy of the moment. Life couldn't have felt more perfect.

As the miles accumulated behind us, by noon the following day, we pulled off at a rest area with spring-like temperatures. It was an ideal setting for a picnic-style break outside the car. After a refreshing walk, we ate salads and cheese with the sun shining brightly on us. However, the road called us, so unwillingly we headed for the car.

Once the food was stored in the trunk, I opened the back door, throwing my keys onto the front seat, and settled Bailey on the back seat before shutting the door with force. However, as I reached for the driver's door handle, a sudden realization struck me.

“Oh, Jess, the door is locked.”

“What do you mean 'locked'? How did that happen?” Jess questioned with concern.

A wave of fear washed over me as I pieced together the situation. The remote likely triggered (触发) the lock when I threw it onto the driver's seat. Inside the car were our purses, keys, and most importantly, Bailey. The rising temperatures now posed a serious threat to her-being trapped inside a hot box without water.

Assessing the problem with a clearer mind, I instantly reached out to a local auto repair service for assistance. Unfortunately, they couldn't guarantee their arrival time due to staffing shortages, leaving me anxious about Bailey's well-being. The danger of heatstroke (中暑) weighed heavily on my mind, fueling my urgency to find a solution. Breaking the window, which had been my last choice, seemed to be the only one.

Just then a large truck approached.

Finally Bailey was saved and my car remained whole.

Far from their home in Boucherville, Quebec, looking to remember as many once-in-a-lifetime memories as they could collect, Mia with her parents Edith and Smith rode horses across the bright green grassland of Mongolia, boated on the blue sea off Cambodia, camped under the soaring brick-red peaks of Namibia and flew in a hot air balloon over the brown, lunar-like landscape in Turkiye.

Back in 2013, when Mia was 3, the family began a frustrating series of visits to doctors, none of whom had an answer for her lack of night vision. In 2015, as a last resort, an eye doctor enrolled the family in a research project. After two years, their entire genome (基因组) was mapped out.

“Right now,” the doctor continued, “there is no cure.”

Full of emotion, Edith stood up, excused herself and walked to the nearest bathroom, where she locked herself in it. Unwilling to lose it in front of Mia, who wouldn’t understand, she sat there alone and cried.

While it was tempting to seek a second opinion, Edith and Smith knew that genetic mapping did not lie: The results were definitive and life-changing.

They hesitated about explaining to 7-year-old Mia what her condition meant. Should they let her be a kid, innocent and unaware, for as long as possible? A few weeks later, it just came out, part of a coversation about disabilities in general while having lunch at their kitchen table.

“You know the problem with your eyes?” Edith asked Mia. “You’re probably going to be blind when you’re an adult.” The truth was more abrupt (意外的) than Edith had hoped, but at least it was done. Edith held her breath as she waited for Mia to respond.

“Oh, that’s not fun.” the girl said before changing the subject.

Later that week, Mia started to keep everything in its place in the house.

After two years’ work, they set out for the yearlong trip while Mia could still see.

The art competition at school was always a highly anticipated event. This year was no exception, with students from all grades eager to showcase their creative talents. Among them were two friends, Jane and Sally.

Jane had a deep passion for art, but she often struggled with expressing her ideas on paper. She would spend hours in front of a blank canvas (画布), trying to capture the perfect image in her mind, but her efforts often fell short. Sally, on the other hand, was naturally talented and her artworks were always praised by teachers and classmates.

As the competition drew nearer, Jane worked harder than ever, staying up late into the night to perfect her piece. Sally, however, seemed to take it all in stride (大步走), casually sketching and painting without much effort. She often teased Jane about her lack of talent, making jokes that were meant to be light-hearted but stung Jane deeply.

On the day of the competition, Jane’s heart was filled with both excitement and fear. She had worked so hard on her piece, but she knew that it still paled in comparison to Sally’s effortless creations. As she set up her canvas and began to paint, she could feel Sally’s eyes on her, mocking (嘲笑) her every move.

Halfway through the competition, Jane encountered a difficult obstacle. She couldn’t seem to capture the essence of her subject the way she wanted to, and her frustration mounted. She looked around at the other students, seeing their confident strokes and vibrant colors, and she felt a pang of defeat. She wanted to give up, to throw away her brush and walk away.

But just as she was about to do so, she caught sight of Sally. Sally wasn’t laughing or mocking her now; instead, she looked at Jane with a mixture of surprise and concern. It was as if she realized that her words had hurt Jane more than she had intended. And in that moment, Jane found a new resolve. She wasn’t going to let Sally’s words or her own doubts defeat her. She was going to finish her piece, no matter what.

With renewed determination, Jane returned to her canvas.

She heard her name announced as the winner of a special recognition award for perseverance and dedication.

My daughter Kathy’s birthday was approaching. Last Sunday, in the early morning, she asked me whether I’d buy her a birthday gift.

I said, “Of course. And to buy the gift, I decide to sell your never-to-be-used-again baby things that still look new and useful. Will you allow it?” She immediately agreed and began sorting out her baby stuff. My husband Sam gladly joined us. Soon, we gathered the stuff well enough. I decided to take them to the second-hand market in the following week and then use the money collected to buy Kathy the bike she dreamed about.

Thinking about that, I waved Kathy and Sam goodbye and left for the local hospital to visit an ill friend there. After twenty-five minutes of drive, I arrived. And after seeing my friend, I went to turn in my visitor’s pass at the hospital desk. There, I overheard an argument between a receptionist (接待员) and a worried and disappointed man whose clothes were a little worn out. The receptionist was explaining that his newborn girl couldn’t leave the hospital without an infant car seat.

Confused, the man asked, “What’s on earth an infant car seat? How much can one cost?” Based on his accent and appearance, I guessed he probably was new here. While I observed the man, the receptionist told him, “Sir, it’s a soft seat made specifically to protect infants and younger babies in a vehicle. It can be easily put in the vehicle. The price often ranges from 70 dollars to 550 dollars.”

So upset, the man said, “Where can I get such a seat at this time and where can I get the money to buy one?” “I’m sorry, sir, but this is what the state law requires. Nobody can take a baby out of the hospital without that seat,” the receptionist said. “Your wife can go home with you today, but the baby can’t leave unless she’s in a car seat.”

My daughter just had an infant car seat, which I had planned to sell. Finding the man looked so helpless, I wondered whether to give him Kathy’s seat for free.

While debating with myself, I thought about my late mom who never hesitated to help strangers.

When the man and I got to my house, Sam and Kathy felt surprised.