好像叫the white gardenia是说一个故事,母亲为了使女儿开心起来,每年女儿生日都会偷偷送她白色栀子花,而且都会引导女儿学会爱,直到母亲死后,that's the year that the gardenia stopped coming.谁能提供这

好像叫the white gardenia是说一个故事,母亲为了使女儿开心起来,每年女儿生日都会偷偷送她白色栀子花,而且都会引导女儿学会爱,直到母亲死后,that's the year that the gardenia stopped coming.谁能提供这
好像叫the white gardenia
是说一个故事,母亲为了使女儿开心起来,每年女儿生日都会偷偷送她白色栀子花,而且都会引导女儿学会爱,直到母亲死后,that's the year that the gardenia stopped coming.
谁能提供这篇文章的原文和mp3录音?或只有原文也行啊!

好像叫the white gardenia是说一个故事,母亲为了使女儿开心起来,每年女儿生日都会偷偷送她白色栀子花,而且都会引导女儿学会爱,直到母亲死后,that's the year that the gardenia stopped coming.谁能提供这
Mystery of the White Gardenia
Every year on my birthday,from the time I turned twelve,a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda.No card or note came with it.Calls to the florist were always in vain——it was a cash purchase.After a while I stoppes trying to discover the sender's identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical,perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But Inever stopped imagining who the anonymous sender might be.Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about the wonderful and exciting but shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings.She'd ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation.Perhaps the neighbours I'd help when she was unloading a car full of grocerieved during the winter so he wouldn't have to venture down his icy steps.As a teenager,though,I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on,or one had noticed me even though I didn't know him.
When I was seventeen,a boy broke my heart.The night he called me for the last time,I cried myself to sleep.When I awoke in the morning,there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick :"Heartily know,when half gods go,the gods arrive." I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time,I left it where my mother had written it.When I finally went to het the glass cleaner,my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don't remember ever slamming my door in anger at herand shouting,"You just don't understand !" Because she did understand.
One month before my high-school graduation,my father died of a heart atteck.My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment,fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important eents in my life.I became completely uninterested in myupcoming graduation,the senior clas play and the prom.But my mother,in the midst of her own grief,would not hear of my skipping for a prom dress.We'd found a spectacular one,with yards of dotted swiss in red,white and blue.It made me feel like Scarlett,but it was the wrong size.When my father died,I forgotthe ress.
My mother didn't.The day before the prom,I found that dress—in the right size—draped majestically over the living room sofa.It was presented to me——beautifully,artistically,lovingly.Ididn't care if I had a new dress or not.But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable,creative and imaginative,imbued with a sense that there was a magic in the world and beauty in the face of adversity.In truth,my mother wanted her children to seethemselves much like the gardenia—lovely,strong and perfect—with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died ten days after I was married,I was twenty-two.That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
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Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, Maryland. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain-it was a ...

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Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, Maryland. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain-it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender’s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I’d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teenager, though, I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn’t know him.
When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive. I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and until my heart healed, I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaned, my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don’t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting, “You just don’t understand!” because she did understand.
One month before my high-school graduation, my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment, fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior-class play and the prom. But my mother, in the midst of her own grief, would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died, my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We’d found a spectacular one, with yards and yards of dotted swiss in red, white and blue, it made me feel like Scarlett O’Hara, but it was the wrong size. When my father died, I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn’t. The day before the prom, I found that dress-in the right size-draped majestically over the living-room sofa. It wasn’t just delivered, still in the box. It was presented to me –beautiful, artistically, lovingly. I didn’t care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable, creative and imaginative, imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia-lovely, strong and perfect-with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died ten days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenia stopped coming.
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