許書明

In the doorway of my home， I looked closely at the face of my 23-year-old son， Daniel， his backpack by his side. We were saying good-bye. In a few hours he would be flying to France. He would be staying there for at least a year to learn another language and experience life in a different country.

It was a transitional time in Daniels life， a passage， a step from college into the adult world. I wanted to leave him some words that would have some meaning， some significance beyond the moment.

But nothing came from my lips. No sound broke the stillness of my beachside home. Outside， I could hear the shrill1 cries of sea gulls as they circled the ever changing surf on Long Island. Inside， I stood frozen and quiet， looking into the searching eyes of my son.

What made it more difficult was that I knew this was not the first time I had let such a moment pass. When Daniel was five， I took him to the school-bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. I felt the tension in his hand holding mine as the bus turned the corner. I saw colour flush his cheeks as the bus pulled up. He looked at me—as he did now.

What is it going to be like， Dad？ Can I do it？ Will I be okay？ And then he walked up the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. And the bus drove away. And I had said nothing.

A decade or so later， a similar scene played itself out. With his mother， I drove him to William and Mary College in Virginia. His first night， he went out with his new schoolmates， and when he met us the next morning， he was sick. He was coming down with mononucleosis， but we could not know that then. We thought he had a hangover.

In his room， Dan lay stretched out on his bed as I started to leave for the trip home. I tried to think of something to say to give him courage and confidence as he started this new phase of life.

Again， words failed me. I mumbled2 something like， “Hope you feel better Dan.” And I left.

Now， as I stood before him， I thought of those lost opportunities. How many times have we all let such moments pass？ A boy graduates from school， a daughter gets married. We go through the motions3 of the ceremony， but we dont seek out our children and find a quiet moment to tell them what they have meant to us. Or what they might expect to face in the years ahead.

How fast the years had passed. Daniel was born in New Orleans， LA.， in 1962， slow to walk and talk， and small of stature4. He was the tiniest in his class， but he developed a warm， outgoing nature and was popular with his peers. He was coordinated5 and agile6， and he became adept in7 sports.

Baseball gave him his earliest challenge. He was an outstanding pitcher8 in Little League， and eventually， as a senior in high school， made the varsity， winning half the teams games with a record of five wins and two losses. At graduation， the coach named Daniel the teams most valuable player.

His finest hour， though， came at a school science fair. He entered an exhibit showing how the circulatory system works. It was primitive9 and crude， especially compared to the fancy， computerized， blinking-light models entered by other students. My wife， Sara， felt embarrassed for him.

It turned out that the other kids had not done their own work，their parents had made their exhibits. As the judges went on their rounds， they found that these other kids couldnt answer their questions. Daniel answered every one. When the judges awarded the Albert Einstein Plaque for the best exhibit， they gave it to him.

By the time Daniel left for college he stood six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. He was muscular and in superb condition， but he never pitched another inning， having given up baseball for English literature. I was sorry that he would not develop his athletic talent， but proud that he had made such a mature decision.

One day I told Daniel that the great failing in my life had been that I didnt take a year or two off to travel when I finished college. This is the best way， to my way of thinking， to broaden oneself and develop a larger perspective on life. Once I had married and begun working， I found that the dream of living in another culture had vanished.

Daniel thought about this. His friends said that he would be insane to put his career on hold. But he decided it wasnt so crazy. After graduation， he worked as a waiter at college， a bike messenger and a house painter. With the money he earned， he had enough to go to Paris.

The night before he was to leave， I tossed in bed. I was trying to figure out something to say. Nothing came to mind. Maybe， I thought， it wasnt necessary to say anything.

What does it matter in the course of a life-time if a father never tells a son what he really thinks of him？ But as I stood before Daniel， I knew that it does matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet， I always regretted never hearing him put his feelings into words and never having the memory of that moment. Now， I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten. Why is it so hard to tell a son something from the heart？ My mouth turned dry， and I knew I would be able to get out only a few words clearly.

“Daniel，” I said， “if I could have picked， I would have picked you.”

Thats all I could say. I wasnt sure he understood what I meant. Then he came toward me and threw his arms around me. For a moment， the world and all its people vanished， and there was just Daniel and me in our home by the sea.

He was saying something， but my eyes misted over， and I couldnt understand what he was saying. All I was aware of was the stubble on his chin as his face pressed against mine. And then， the moment ended. I went to work， and Daniel left a few hours later with his girlfriend.

That was seven weeks ago， and I think about him when I walk along the beach on weekends. Thousands of miles away， somewhere out past the ocean waves breaking on the deserted10 shore， he might be scurrying11 across Boulevard Saint Germain， strolling through a musty hallway of the Louvre， bending an elbow12 in a Left Bank café.

What I had said to Daniel was clumsy and trite13. It was nothing. And yet， it was everything.

1 shrill尖聲的;刺耳的。

2 mumble含糊地說某事，咕噥。? 3 go through the motions裝樣子，做姿態(tài)。

4 stature身高，身材。? 5 coordinated協(xié)調的。? 6 agile敏捷的，靈活的。? 7 be adept in擅長。? 8 pitcher（棒球）投手。? 9 primitive原始的;簡單的。

10 deserted荒蕪的，無人的。? 11 scurry碎步疾跑。

12 bend （ones） / the elbow喝酒。? 13 trite陳腐的。

在家門口，我緊緊盯著23歲的兒子丹尼爾的臉，他的背包就放在身邊。我們正在道別。再過幾個小時他就要飛往法國了。他將在那里至少待一年，學習另一種語言，體驗另一個國家的生活。

那是丹尼爾人生中的一個過渡期——從大學踏入成人世界的一段旅程。我想送給他幾句話，幾句有意義的話，無論現在還是未來都有意義的話。

但我什么也沒說。我的家在海邊，沒有任何聲音打破家中的寧靜。屋外，海鷗在長島不斷翻騰的海浪上空盤旋，我能聽到它們的尖叫聲。屋里，我呆呆站著，沉默不語，看著兒子那雙渴求的眼睛。

更糟的是，我知道自己不是第一次讓這樣的時刻白白溜走了。丹尼爾五歲時，第一天上幼兒園，我送他到校車站。當校車從拐角處轉出，我感覺到他握著我的小手傳遞出的緊張不安。校車靠站時，我看到他臉漲得通紅。他看著我——就像現在。

爸爸，上車后會遇到什么事？我能行嗎？我會沒事嗎？然后，他踏上校車的臺階，消失在車廂里。車開走了，而我什么也沒說。

大約十年后，類似的一幕再次上演。我和他母親開車送他去弗吉尼亞的威廉瑪麗學院。第一個晚上，他和新同學出去了，第二天早上見到我們時，他病了。他得了單核細胞增多癥，但當時我們還不知道。我們以為他前一晚喝多了。

丹虛弱地趴在宿舍的床上，而我準備動身回家了。我很想跟他說些什么，在他開始人生新的階段之際給他些勇氣和信心。

結果，我又一次語塞。我咕噥了一句“丹，希望你早點兒好起來”便離開了。

此時，站在他面前，我想起了那些錯過的機會。有多少次，我們讓這樣的時刻白白溜走？比如兒子畢業(yè)，再比如女兒出嫁。我們參加典禮就是走走過場，卻沒有特意找到孩子，找個安靜的時刻告訴他們，他們對我們有多重要或者他們未來可能面對怎樣的人生。

時間過得真快。1962年，丹尼爾在路易斯安那的新奧爾良出生。他學走路和說話都遲一些，個子也不高。他是班里個頭最小的，但熱情開朗，人緣很好。他協(xié)調性好，動作敏捷，在運動方面的特長漸漸顯露。

棒球是他人生的第一項挑戰(zhàn)。他在少年棒球聯盟中是一名出色的投手，最終，高三時帶領校隊創(chuàng)下五勝兩負的戰(zhàn)績，出場勝率達到50%。畢業(yè)時，教練提名丹尼爾為球隊最有價值球員。

不過，他最輝煌的時刻是在學校舉辦的一次科學節(jié)上。他參加了一個展示循環(huán)系統(tǒng)工作原理的展覽。他的參展作品簡單而粗糙，與其他學生那些花里胡哨、裝著閃光燈的電腦模型相比尤為明顯。我的妻子薩拉都替他難為情。

原來，其他孩子的參展作品并非他們自己親手做的，而是父母代勞的。評委照例開始逐一評審，他們發(fā)現那些孩子回答不出他們的問題，而丹尼爾卻能一一作答。最后，評委們把授予最佳作品的阿爾伯特·愛因斯坦獎牌頒給了他。

丹尼爾剛上大學時身高6英尺，體重170磅。他肌肉發(fā)達，身體強健，但由于放棄棒球而選擇了英國文學，他再也沒打過一次棒球。我很遺憾他不再發(fā)揮自己的運動天賦，但也為他做出了這樣一個理智的決定而驕傲。

有一天，我告訴丹尼爾，我人生中最大的缺憾就是大學畢業(yè)時沒有抽出一兩年的時間去旅行。在我看來，這是豐富閱歷、開拓視野的最好途徑。一旦成家立業(yè)，我發(fā)現體驗異國文化的夢想早已消失了。

丹尼爾認真考慮了我說的這些。他的朋友們說，他要是把事業(yè)擱在一邊，那就是瘋了。但他認定這并沒那么瘋狂。畢業(yè)后，他在大學里做過服務員，還騎車送過快遞，給人刷過房子。打工攢下的錢足夠他去趟巴黎了。

他出發(fā)的前一天晚上，我在床上輾轉反側。我想找點兒話作為臨別贈言，可腦子里一片空白。我想，也許沒必要說什么了吧。

即使一個父親一輩子都沒告訴過兒子自己對他的真實看法，又有什么關系呢？但是，當我站在丹尼爾面前，我明白了那很重要。我的父親愛我，我也愛他，然而，我始終遺憾從未聽他說過心里話，也從未能擁有那一刻的記憶。現在，我能感覺到自己手心冒汗、喉嚨發(fā)緊。為什么對兒子說幾句心里話這么難？我嘴巴發(fā)干，知道自己只能清楚地吐出幾個字。

“丹尼爾，”我說，“如果我能有機會選擇，我也一定會選你?！?/p>

我能說出口的就這一句。我不確定他是否明白我的意思。他聽到后向前一步，伸出雙臂抱住了我。那一瞬間，似乎整個世界和所有人都消失了，只有我和丹尼爾站在海邊的家里。

他說了些什么，但我的眼睛模糊了，我也沒聽明白他在說什么。我只感覺到他的臉貼著我的臉時他下巴上的胡茬。然后，這一刻結束了。我去上班，丹尼爾幾個小時后和女友離開了。

那是七周前的事了，周末我在海灘上散步時就會想起他。在幾千英里外大洋對岸的某個地方，遠離拍打著荒蕪海岸的海浪，他也許正飛奔著穿過圣日耳曼大道，或者漫步在羅浮宮散發(fā)著霉味的走廊上，又或者在一家左岸咖啡館里點了杯酒。

我對丹尼爾說的話既笨拙又老套。什么也沒說，然而，也說出了一切。