The Hands

What I never understood in elementary school was why my dad would always tell me to go on the bus last. At first I believed he merely wanted me to be respectful to others by letting them go on fi rst. Now I realize he just wanted to spend as much time as possible with me. As others were boarding①board 英 [b??d] 美 [b?rd] n. 木板；甲板；膳食vt. 上（飛機(jī)、車(chē)、船）the bus, my father whispered,"Behave, son.I love you," I responded, "Dad, I Iove you too." I would then give my father a hug. At that moment,my turn came and I walked up the stairs. I quickly hurried into my usual seat (second seat on the right side)and strapped②strap 英 [str?p] 美 [str?p] vt. 用帶捆綁on my seat belt. I looked at the window and, as sure as day, my father’s hand was already there, I followed our time--practiced ritual③ritual 英 ['r?t???l] 美 ['r?t?u?l] n. 儀式；慣例；禮制 adj. 儀式的；例行的, and I put my hand in front of his.

Even though there was a glass window between us. It was almost as if we were actually touching each other, my small hand in his bigger one. For a moment we were connected as one. And it seemed that all outside noises were fi ltered④fi lter out 過(guò)濾掉out and the whole world was revolving around the two of us. My mind was calm and full of love, and it seemed to me that we were out of sync⑤sync 英 [s??k] 美 [s??k] n. 同步，同時(shí) vi. 同時(shí)發(fā)生, with the surroundings. Everybody was moving around with the busy morning, but we were there as calm as ever. As the bus roared to life, I watched my dad wave goodbye to me. I leaned back in my seat and felt the warmth of my father's hand soak into me.