- 皮皮
-
It"s a balmy afternoon at the local supermarket. I am eight years old, sitting with my baby brother, discussing the twists and turns2) of my trying3) life as a student in grade three, when a swarm of kids tumble4) through the doors. They swagger5) through the heat of the afternoon. They chatter. Then stop. And ogle6).
"What"s the matter with him?" comes the gruesomely7) innocent question.
"Nothing," I reply. "He"s just got this thing where he bled in his brain when he was born. He"s awwright."
I don"t even understand what"s wrong with my brother, so how can I explain it to someone else?
"My brother broke both his legs at the same time once an" he had to use crutches, too," lingers a voice at my elbow. It would be easy if I could say the same about my brother. But it"s not that simple. Life never is.
My brother Ben has cerebral palsy. He was born 13 weeks prematurely and suffered a severe brain haemorrhage8), which resulted in a permanent brain injury. After three months in intensive care, the doctors told Mum and Dad to take him home for his last few weeks of life. But Ben defied9) the odds10). He turns 21 this year.
He is close to 1.8m tall, has impaired sight and learning difficulties and uses a wheelchair and crutches to get around. He has had four major operations, spent a total of 12 months in hip-to-ankle casts and put up with years of rehabilitation. Yet he still smiles and continues to make me laugh with his surprisingly bent11) sense of humour. I"ve always had a special connection with Ben. I understand the things he doesn"t know how to express.
When we were little, we had a "Brother-Sister Club". We had code names and uniforms and spent hours in "meetings" under a sheet and four chairs on the family room floor: an exclusive club of two.
These days, we spend a lot of time together, just "hangin" out", as Ben likes to call it. We make a point of doing things he wouldn"t do with his social groups or with Mum and Dad — like blasting the radio at a McDonald"s drive-through just for giggles; or ploughing through foliage in the Royal Botanical Gardens for half an hour to glimpse 15 minutes of Guy Sebastian12) rehearsing for a concert.
Even normal, everyday things resonate for both of us — such as how we always say "yo" to each other at the breakfast table instead of "good morning"; how we slump13) together in front of the TV at night; and how we swap14) gossip just before bed. My reward is a grin that stretches beyond the bounds of Ben"s cheeks. My brother is the only person I know who can love me with his smile.
Nowadays, with my university studies, career and social life gaining an ever-hectic15) momentum, I"m struggling to make as much time for Ben as I should. Every time I brush him aside, I feel a cold shadow of guilt and imagine how I"d regret these lost moments, if anything bad ever happened to him.
I know my parents" biggest concern is that I"ll be left with the sole responsibility of Ben"s welfare when they are gone. They want me to fulfil my dreams, to work overseas, to raise a family and to live my own life, without the burden of my brother. But I cannot even imagine giving up on Ben like that.
We recently discovered that Ben has epilepsy16) — yet another hurdle to add to the list of adversities he faces every day. I just can"t understand it: why Ben? It feels like we"ve all been put on a backwards-moving conveyor belt. Every time we step forward, the pace picks up and triumphantly thuds17) us back to where we started.
It all seems so overwhelmingly futile and unfair sometimes that I wonder how my parents summon the strength and courage to face each day.
And sometimes, I"m ashamed to admit, I imagine what our family would be like without Ben. Life would be simpler and less strenuous. My parents would sleep soundly at night. They would go on holidays, spend time with each other and remember themselves. At times it can seem like we"ve forgotten who we are.
Then, last year, Ben graduated from his special school. He sat proudly up on stage, in his suit, shirt and tie, painstakingly sounding out each syllable of his speech. I couldn"t help but envisage18) him as he would have been without cerebral palsy19): he could have been house captain, soccer captain, debating captain or first trombone20) in the school jazz band.
Up until Ben"s graduation, I used to feel like I had to make up for Ben"s disabilities with my own achievements. But as a slideshow of childhood photos faded out on the screen behind him, I realised that Ben"s achievements may only be as colossal22) as writing his name, or as simple as folding the corner of a page, but they are all monumental because they are his alone. So with a teary smile and a proud lump in my throat, I stood to give my baby brother the standing ovation he truly deserved.
- 再也不做稀饭了
-
My life as a Grade three student
As a grade three student, I am busy studying everyday as if I am a working maching all the time. But I know that I have to take good care of myself as well, so I make a good plan for my school life.
In most of the school time I learn knowledge which teachers told us to remember and do a lot of exercises. The first thing i do after going home is to revise what I learn at school and to finish my homework. And then I will go swimming or play basketball with my good friends so that I can keep healthy.
I believe that I can get a good result in the final exam with the help of my good plan.
- 北有云溪
-
请问你是小学三年级?初三?还是高三?