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 Daniel's 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 shrill 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 mumbled 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 motions of the ceremony, but we don't 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 stature. He was the tiniest in his class, but he developed a warm, outgoing nature and was popular with his peers. He was coordinated and agile, and he became adept in sports. Baseball gave him his earliest challenge. He was an outstanding pitcher in Little League, and eventually, as a senior in high school, made the varsity, winning half the team's games with a record of five wins and two losses. At graduation, the coach named Daniel the team's 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 primitive 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 couldn't 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 didn't 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 wasn't 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 wasn't 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." That's all I could say. I wasn't 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 couldn't 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 deserted shore, he might be scurrying across Boulevard Saint Germain, strolling through a musty hallway of the Louvre, bending an elbow in a Left Bank café. What I had said to Daniel was clumsy and trite. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything. 在家門口，我凝視着23歲的兒子丹尼爾的臉，他的揹包就放在身旁。他的揹包就放在身旁。我們即將道別幾個小時之後，他就要飛往法國，在那裏待上至少一年的時間。他要學習另一種語言學習法語，並在一個全新的國度體驗新的生活。 這是丹尼爾生命中的一個過渡時期，也是他從象牙塔進入成人世界踏出的一步。我希望送給他幾句話，幾句能令讓他受用終身的話語。 但我竟一句話也說不出來。我們的房子坐落在海邊，此刻屋裏靜寂無聲。屋外，海鷗在波濤澎湃的長島海域上空盤旋，我能聽見它們發出的尖叫。我就這樣站在屋裏，默默地注視着兒子那雙困惑的眼睛。 更糟的是，我很清楚自己已經不是第一次讓如此重要的時光白白流逝。丹尼爾五歲的時候，那是幼兒園開學的第一天，我領着他來到校車的上落點。當校車在拐角處出現時，他的小手緊緊地攥着我，我感覺到了他的不安。校車到站那一刻，丹尼爾雙頰發紅，擡頭望着我——就像現在這樣。 爸爸，接下來會怎樣呢？我能行麼？我會沒事嗎？說着，他上了校車，消失在我的視野裏。車開走了，我卻始終開不了口。 十多年後，這一幕再次上演。我與妻子開車送丹尼爾到維吉尼亞州的威廉瑪麗學院讀書。抵達在學校的第一個晚上，丹尼爾和舍友們一起外出。次日清晨再見到丹尼爾時，他感到身體不適。其實當時他體內已出現白血球增多，但當時我們並不知道，以爲他只是喝多了而已。 我正準備啓程回家時，丹尼爾正在宿舍的牀上躺着。我很想說一些鼓勵的話語，在他的新生活伊始給他勇氣與信心。 但是，我再一次語塞。我只是咕噥了一句“希望你快點好起來，丹尼爾”就轉身離開了。 此時此刻，站在丹尼爾面前，我想起了那些被錯過的時刻。究竟多少次，我們讓這些珍貴的時刻白白溜走？例如兒子的畢業典禮，女兒的婚禮等等。我們疲於應付這些熱鬧的場面，卻沒有在人羣中逮住孩子，找個安靜的地方，親口說出他們對我們有多麼重要，或者與他們聊聊未來的人生。 時光飛逝，歲月如梭。1962年小丹尼爾出生於洛杉磯新奧爾良市。他比同齡人稍遲學會走路和說話，個子也長得不高。但是，儘管丹尼爾是班裏最瘦小的一個，他性格熱情外向，人緣甚廣。由於協調性好且行動敏捷，他很快成爲了運動高手。 棒球是丹尼爾人生的第一項挑戰。他是棒球隊裏出色的投手。高三的時候，丹尼爾帶領學校棒球隊所向披靡，創下了七局五勝的記錄。在畢業典禮上，棒球教練宣佈他爲最有價值球員。 然而，丹尼爾最輝煌的時刻卻是在一次校園科技展上。丹尼爾帶着他的循環電路系統參加了這次展覽。與其他參展學生的那些新奇怪異、電腦操控、熠熠發光的模型相比，丹尼爾的作品相形見絀。我的妻子莎拉都替兒子感到臉紅。 後來才得知其他孩子的作品並非自己完成，而是父母代勞的。當評委在現場評審的時候，他們發現這些孩子都對參展作品一無所知，只有丹尼爾對答如流。於是他們把本次展覽的最佳作品獎頒給了丹尼爾，並授予艾伯特·愛因斯坦獎牌。 丹尼爾剛進大學時已經是個身高六尺，重一百七十磅的堂堂男子漢了。自從放棄棒球而選擇英國文學後，肌肉結實、身體強壯的丹尼爾卻再沒打過棒球了。我爲他放棄了自己的體育特長感到惋惜，但更爲他做出如此慎重的決定感到驕傲。 有一次，我告訴丹尼爾我一生中最大的失誤就是大學剛畢業時，沒能抽出一兩年的時間周遊列國。在我看來，這是開拓視野，形成豁達人生的最佳途徑。我成家工作以後，體驗異國文化的夢想就煙消雲散了。 聽了這番話後，丹尼爾若有所思。丹尼爾的朋友告誡他說，爲了遊歷世界而把事業擱在一邊，這是非常愚蠢的。但丹尼爾並不認同。畢業後，他在大學校園端盤子，騎單車送報紙，還替人刷牆。通過打工掙錢，他攢足了去巴黎的路費。 丹尼爾離開的前夜，我在牀上輾轉難眠。我想準備好明天要說的話，但腦袋裏卻一片空白。也許根本就無須贅言，我安慰自己。 即使一位父親一輩子都不曾親口告訴兒子自己對他的看法，那又如何？然而，當我面對着丹尼爾，我知道到這非常重要。我愛我的父親，他也愛我。但我從未聽過他說心裏話，更沒有這些感人的回憶。爲此，我總心懷遺憾。現在，我手心冒汗，喉嚨打結。爲什麼對兒子說幾句心裏話如此困難？我的嘴脣變得乾澀，我想我頂多能夠清晰地吐出幾個字而已。 “丹尼爾，”我終於迸出了一句，“如果上帝讓我選擇誰是我的兒子，我始終會選你。” 這是我惟一能想到的話了。我不曉得丹尼爾是否理解了這句話，但他撲過來抱住了我。那一刻，世界消失了，只剩下我和丹尼爾站在海邊的小屋裏。 丹尼爾也在說着什麼，但淚水已經模糊了我的雙眼，我一個字也沒聽進去。只是當他的臉向我貼過來時，我感覺到了他下巴的鬍子茬。然後，一切恢復原樣。我繼續工作，丹尼爾幾個小時後帶着女友離開了。 七個星期過去了，週末在海邊散步時我會想起丹尼爾。橫跨拍打着這個荒蕪海岸的茫茫大海，幾百英里之外的某個地方，丹尼爾也許正飛奔着穿越聖熱蒙大道，或者在羅浮宮散發着黴味的走廊上徘徊，又或者此時正託着下巴坐在左岸咖啡館裏憩息。 我對丹尼爾說的那些話既晦澀又老套，空洞無文。然而，它卻道出了一切。
