【作文】六年级六一儿童节作文500字：最后一次儿童节的感动

黑板上的那行字没人肯擦

黑板上的字是早上到的时候看见的：六一快乐，后面另起一行，毕业快乐。写字的人把毕业快乐四个字描了三层，粉笔灰在槽里积了一小堆。我站在讲台上看了好一会儿，手痒想去擦，手伸到一半又收回来。这是我们在小学过的最后一个六一，谁都知道，谁都没说破。

联欢会第二节课开始，桌椅围成一圈，中间空出舞台。教室后墙的黑板被彩带围了一圈，气球用透明胶粘在窗玻璃上，风一吹，气球轻轻撞玻璃，发出闷闷的咚咚声。班长报幕，第一个节目是四人合唱，伴奏的钢琴是音乐老师借来的电子琴，插电的时候插头松了，台下哄笑，弹琴的男生面不改色把插头按回去，接着弹。我演的是小品里负责摔倒的那一个，道具西瓜是纸糊的，摔下去的时候膝盖磕在地板上，有点疼，可观众笑得最大声，我爬起来鞠躬，膝盖的疼就变成了得意。

节目演完是互赠礼物。教室里一下子安静不下来，书包拉链声、包装纸的沙沙声、惊呼声，全搅在一起。同桌送我一个笔记本，扉页上写着你欠我的三块橡皮，初中记得还。我送她的是昨晚做到十一点的纸星星，十二颗，装在一个洗干净的玻璃瓶里，每一颗里面塞了一张小纸条，写着只有我们俩看得懂的事。她拧开瓶子倒出来数，数到第七颗停住了，把那颗攥在手心，没说话。前后桌的男生们交换的是球星卡，一张卡吵得脸红脖子粗，最后勾着肩膀和好了。后排胆小的女生给每人发了一颗糖，发到我这里多塞了一颗，冲我眨眨眼。

快放学，班主任走进来，手里没有拿书。她站在讲台中间，看了我们一圈，说这是陪你们的最后一个六一，六年级了，马上要各奔东西，她不求我们考多好的学校，只记得三件事：好好吃饭，交到敢吵架也敢和好的朋友，难过的时候别憋着。说到第三件，她的声音哑了一下，转过身去，在黑板上毕业快乐后面画了一个小小的太阳。我们鼓掌，掌声持续得比任何一次都久，有人一边鼓掌一边吸鼻子，声音在安静的教室里格外清楚。

放学铃响，大家背起书包往门口走，走到门口又都回头看黑板。那行字在夕阳里，粉笔的白在墨绿的黑板上亮着。值日生拿着黑板擦在讲台边转了两圈，最后把黑板擦放回了槽里，说，明天再说吧。没有人反驳。那行字在黑板上留了一整天，像我们谁也不肯先说出口的那句话。

Nobody Would Erase the Words on the Blackboard

The words on the blackboard were there when I arrived in the morning: Happy Children's Day, and on a separate line after it, Happy Graduation. Whoever wrote them traced the graduation words over three times, and a small pile of chalk dust collected in the tray. I stood at the podium looking for a while, my hand itching to erase, and pulled it back halfway. This was our last Children's Day in elementary school. Everyone knew it; nobody said it out loud.

The party began in the second period. Desks and chairs formed a circle with the stage left open in the middle. The back blackboard was framed with streamers, and balloons were taped to the window glass with clear tape; in the breeze they knocked softly on the glass, thump thump. The class host announced the first act, a quartet. The piano was an electronic keyboard borrowed from the music teacher, and when they plugged it in the plug came loose, drawing roars of laughter from the audience; the boy playing did not bat an eye, pressed the plug back in, and kept playing. My part in the skit was falling down. The prop watermelon was paper-mache; when I fell, my knee hit the floor and hurt a little, but the audience laughed the loudest at that moment, so when I got up to bow, the pain turned into pride.

After the acts came the gift exchange. The classroom suddenly could not hold its quiet: backpack zippers, the rustle of wrapping paper, and exclamations all mixed together. My deskmate gave me a notebook; on the first page she wrote: you still owe me three erasers, remember to pay up in middle school. What I gave her was the paper stars I stayed up until eleven making last night, twelve of them in a washed glass jar, each hiding a tiny slip of paper with something only the two of us could understand. She unscrewed the jar and poured them out to count, stopped at the seventh, closed her fist around it, and said nothing. The boys front and back traded soccer cards, arguing red-faced over one card, and ended up arm in arm making up. The shy girl in the back row handed everyone a candy, slipped me an extra one, and winked.

Just before dismissal, our homeroom teacher walked in without a book in her hand. She stood in the middle of the podium, looked around at all of us, and said this was the last Children's Day she would spend with us; we were sixth graders about to scatter, and she did not ask for great exam results, only three things: eat well, keep friends brave enough to quarrel and to make up, and do not swallow your sadness. On the third one her voice cracked for a moment; she turned around and drew a small sun after Happy Graduation on the blackboard. We applauded, longer than any time before, and someone sniffled while clapping, the sound unusually clear in the quiet room.

The dismissal bell rang. Everyone shouldered backpacks and walked to the door, then turned back at the doorway to look at the blackboard. The words glowed in the setting sun, chalk-white shining on the dark green board. The class on duty paced twice at the podium with the eraser, and finally put it back in the tray, saying: tomorrow we'll talk. Nobody argued. The words stayed on the blackboard all day, like the sentence none of us was willing to say first.

礼物袋里的那张合影

毕业典礼结束那天，我收拾书桌，从笔袋夹层里抽出一张照片。照片是六年级最后一个六一拍的，那天我们全班在黑板前挤成一团，班长举着自拍杆，镜头晃，人脸都糊，只有后排探进来的半个脑袋特别清楚，是转学走的赵一凡。我把照片放回笔袋最里面。就是这张照片，在那个下午差点送不出去。

那天中午前，教室已经改头换面。联欢会是我们自己张罗的，黑板上画了彩带和烟花，气球从灯管上垂下来，低得我一伸手就能碰到。节目单贴在门后，一共十一个节目，一半是临时加上去的，字迹忽大忽小。班里最调皮的男生何志远报了个单口，往中间一站，开口就说：今天允许我们过六一，明天就催我们交毕业照的钱。台下先静了一秒，笑炸了。他越讲越顺，讲到食堂的包子皮比馅厚，我笑得直拍桌子。轮到全班合唱班歌，音乐委员起头起高了，女声部一开始就够不着，全体降了半个调，反而唱得整整齐齐，副歌的时候前排女生自发排成一排晃着胳膊，像一片麦浪。

合唱完发礼物。规则是抽签互换，我抽到的是赵一凡的名字，可他已经转学两个月，座位空着。班长把我的礼物放到那个空桌上，是一盒十二色的新铅笔，我在纸条上写：铅笔给你留着，照片也给你留着。我的礼物是同桌的，一个用旧校服改的笔袋，针脚歪歪扭扭，她不好意思地说手艺不行，我当场把笔袋挂到书包带上，线头还翘着，可我觉得比文具店里任何一个都好看。何志远收到的是全班签名的一件白T恤，他举起来就往身上套，签名被撑得变了形，他也不管，在教室里转了一圈展示。

下午最后一节，班主任进来了。她没拿教案，手里捏着一张对折的信纸。她说这是她带过的最后一届，六年，从一年级的拼音到六年级的辩论赛，她念信，念到你们是我教过最吵的一届，也是最舍不得的一届，停住了。她背过身去扶了扶眼镜，全班没人出声，静得能听见窗外别的班在排练节目。她缓过来，转过身，把信纸展开举起来，喊了一句：毕业快乐。我们齐声喊回去。那一声大概是我小学喊得最响的一次。

照片在笔袋里躺了两个月，边角磨软了。那天下午我们谁也没想到，一场联欢会、一盒铅笔、一封没念完的信，够人记这么多年。

The Class Photo in the Gift Bag

The day the graduation ceremony ended, I was clearing out my desk when I pulled a photo from a hidden pocket of my pencil case. The photo was taken on our last Children's Day in sixth grade: the whole class crammed together in front of the blackboard, the class monitor holding a selfie stick, the shot shaky, every face blurred, only half a head poking in from the back row perfectly clear - it was Zhao Yifan, who had transferred away. I put the photo back at the very bottom of the case. This is the photo that almost never got given away that afternoon.

By noon the classroom had changed its face. We organized the party ourselves: streamers and fireworks drawn on the blackboard, balloons hanging from the light tubes so low I could touch them with a stretch. The program was taped behind the door, eleven acts, half of them added last minute in handwriting of wildly different sizes. He Zhiyuan, the mischief-maker of the class, signed up for a solo stand-up. He walked to the center and opened: Today they let us celebrate Children's Day, and tomorrow they'll be chasing us for graduation photo money. The room went silent for one second, then exploded. He got smoother as he went, joking that the cafeteria buns have thicker skin than filling, and I slapped the desk laughing. When it came time for the class song, the music monitor started the pitch too high, the girls could not reach it from the first line, so everyone dropped half a key, and somehow it came out perfectly even. On the chorus the front-row girls swayed their arms in an unspoken line, like a field of wheat.

After the song came the gifts. The rule was a lottery swap. I drew Zhao Yifan's name - but he had transferred away two months ago, and his desk sat empty. The class monitor placed my gift on that empty desk: a box of twelve new colored pencils. On the note I wrote: the pencils are saved for you, and so is the photo. My gift, from my deskmate, was a pencil pouch sewn from an old school uniform, its stitches crooked. She apologized for her clumsy hands; I clipped it onto my backpack strap on the spot. The loose threads still stuck out, but I thought it looked better than anything in a stationery store. He Zhiyuan received a white T-shirt signed by the whole class. He pulled it over his head right there, the signatures stretched out of shape, and he paraded around the classroom showing it off anyway.

In the last period of the afternoon, our homeroom teacher came in. No lesson plan in her hand, just a letter folded in half. She said we were the last class she would ever teach - six years, from first-grade pinyin to sixth-grade debates. She read the letter aloud, and when she reached the line you are the noisiest class I ever taught, and the one I am least willing to let go of, she stopped. She turned away and adjusted her glasses. Not a sound in the room; through the window we could hear another class rehearsing. She pulled herself together, turned back, unfolded the letter and held it up, and shouted: Happy Graduation. We shouted it back in unison. That was probably the loudest I ever shouted in elementary school.

The photo has lain in my pencil case for two months, its corners worn soft. That afternoon, none of us imagined that one party, one box of pencils, and one unfinished letter could last this many years in the memory.