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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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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尖声的;刺耳的。
2 mumble含糊地说某事，咕哝。 3 go through the motions装样子，做姿态。
4 stature身高，身材。 5 coordinated协调的。 6 agile敏捷的，灵活的。 7 be adept in擅长。 8 pitcher（棒球）投手。 9 primitive原始的;简单的。
10 deserted荒芜的，无人的。 11 scurry碎步疾跑。
12 bend （one’s） / the elbow喝酒。 13 trite陈腐的。
在家门口，我紧紧盯着23岁的儿子丹尼尔的脸，他的背包就放在身边。我们正在道别。再过几个小时他就要飞往法国了。他将在那里至少待一年，学习另一种语言，体验另一个国家的生活。
那是丹尼尔人生中的一个过渡期——从大学踏入成人世界的一段旅程。我想送给他几句话，几句有意义的话，无论现在还是未来都有意义的话。
但我什么也没说。我的家在海边，没有任何声音打破家中的宁静。屋外，海鸥在长岛不断翻腾的海浪上空盘旋，我能听到它们的尖叫声。屋里，我呆呆站着，沉默不语，看着儿子那双渴求的眼睛。
更糟的是，我知道自己不是第一次让这样的时刻白白溜走了。丹尼尔五岁时，第一天上幼儿园，我送他到校车站。当校车从拐角处转出，我感觉到他握着我的小手传递出的紧张不安。校车靠站时，我看到他脸涨得通红。他看着我——就像现在。
爸爸，上车后会遇到什么事？我能行吗？我会没事吗？然后，他踏上校车的台阶，消失在车厢里。车开走了，而我什么也没说。
大约十年后，类似的一幕再次上演。我和他母亲开车送他去弗吉尼亚的威廉玛丽学院。第一个晚上，他和新同学出去了，第二天早上见到我们时，他病了。他得了单核细胞增多症，但当时我们还不知道。我们以为他前一晚喝多了。
丹虚弱地趴在宿舍的床上，而我准备动身回家了。我很想跟他说些什么，在他开始人生新的阶段之际给他些勇气和信心。
结果，我又一次语塞。我咕哝了一句“丹，希望你早点儿好起来”便离开了。
此时，站在他面前，我想起了那些错过的机会。有多少次，我们让这样的时刻白白溜走？比如儿子毕业，再比如女儿出嫁。我们参加典礼就是走走过场，却没有特意找到孩子，找个安静的时刻告訴他们，他们对我们有多重要或者他们未来可能面对怎样的人生。
时间过得真快。1962年，丹尼尔在路易斯安那的新奥尔良出生。他学走路和说话都迟一些，个子也不高。他是班里个头最小的，但热情开朗，人缘很好。他协调性好，动作敏捷，在运动方面的特长渐渐显露。
棒球是他人生的第一项挑战。他在少年棒球联盟中是一名出色的投手，最终，高三时带领校队创下五胜两负的战绩，出场胜率达到50%。毕业时，教练提名丹尼尔为球队最有价值球员。
不过，他最辉煌的时刻是在学校举办的一次科学节上。他参加了一个展示循环系统工作原理的展览。他的参展作品简单而粗糙，与其他学生那些花里胡哨、装着闪光灯的电脑模型相比尤为明显。我的妻子萨拉都替他难为情。
原来，其他孩子的参展作品并非他们自己亲手做的，而是父母代劳的。评委照例开始逐一评审，他们发现那些孩子回答不出他们的问题，而丹尼尔却能一一作答。最后，评委们把授予最佳作品的阿尔伯特·爱因斯坦奖牌颁给了他。
丹尼尔刚上大学时身高6英尺，体重170磅。他肌肉发达，身体强健，但由于放弃棒球而选择了英国文学，他再也没打过一次棒球。我很遗憾他不再发挥自己的运动天赋，但也为他做出了这样一个理智的决定而骄傲。
有一天，我告诉丹尼尔，我人生中最大的缺憾就是大学毕业时没有抽出一两年的时间去旅行。在我看来，这是丰富阅历、开拓视野的最好途径。一旦成家立业，我发现体验异国文化的梦想早已消失了。
丹尼尔认真考虑了我说的这些。他的朋友们说，他要是把事业搁在一边，那就是疯了。但他认定这并没那么疯狂。毕业后，他在大学里做过服务员，还骑车送过快递，给人刷过房子。打工攒下的钱足够他去趟巴黎了。
他出发的前一天晚上，我在床上辗转反侧。我想找点儿话作为临别赠言，可脑子里一片空白。我想，也许没必要说什么了吧。
即使一个父亲一辈子都没告诉过儿子自己对他的真实看法，又有什么关系呢？但是，当我站在丹尼尔面前，我明白了那很重要。我的父亲爱我，我也爱他，然而，我始终遗憾从未听他说过心里话，也从未能拥有那一刻的记忆。现在，我能感觉到自己手心冒汗、喉咙发紧。为什么对儿子说几句心里话这么难？我嘴巴发干，知道自己只能清楚地吐出几个字。
“丹尼尔，”我说，“如果我能有机会选择，我也一定会选你。”
我能说出口的就这一句。我不确定他是否明白我的意思。他听到后向前一步，伸出双臂抱住了我。那一瞬间，似乎整个世界和所有人都消失了，只有我和丹尼尔站在海边的家里。
他说了些什么，但我的眼睛模糊了，我也没听明白他在说什么。我只感觉到他的脸贴着我的脸时他下巴上的胡茬。然后，这一刻结束了。我去上班，丹尼尔几个小时后和女友离开了。
那是七周前的事了，周末我在海滩上散步时就会想起他。在几千英里外大洋对岸的某个地方，远离拍打着荒芜海岸的海浪，他也许正飞奔着穿过圣日耳曼大道，或者漫步在罗浮宫散发着霉味的走廊上，又或者在一家左岸咖啡馆里点了杯酒。
我对丹尼尔说的话既笨拙又老套。什么也没说，然而，也说出了一切。
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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尖声的;刺耳的。
2 mumble含糊地说某事，咕哝。 3 go through the motions装样子，做姿态。
4 stature身高，身材。 5 coordinated协调的。 6 agile敏捷的，灵活的。 7 be adept in擅长。 8 pitcher（棒球）投手。 9 primitive原始的;简单的。
10 deserted荒芜的，无人的。 11 scurry碎步疾跑。
12 bend （one’s） / the elbow喝酒。 13 trite陈腐的。
在家门口，我紧紧盯着23岁的儿子丹尼尔的脸，他的背包就放在身边。我们正在道别。再过几个小时他就要飞往法国了。他将在那里至少待一年，学习另一种语言，体验另一个国家的生活。
那是丹尼尔人生中的一个过渡期——从大学踏入成人世界的一段旅程。我想送给他几句话，几句有意义的话，无论现在还是未来都有意义的话。
但我什么也没说。我的家在海边，没有任何声音打破家中的宁静。屋外，海鸥在长岛不断翻腾的海浪上空盘旋，我能听到它们的尖叫声。屋里，我呆呆站着，沉默不语，看着儿子那双渴求的眼睛。
更糟的是，我知道自己不是第一次让这样的时刻白白溜走了。丹尼尔五岁时，第一天上幼儿园，我送他到校车站。当校车从拐角处转出，我感觉到他握着我的小手传递出的紧张不安。校车靠站时，我看到他脸涨得通红。他看着我——就像现在。
爸爸，上车后会遇到什么事？我能行吗？我会没事吗？然后，他踏上校车的台阶，消失在车厢里。车开走了，而我什么也没说。
大约十年后，类似的一幕再次上演。我和他母亲开车送他去弗吉尼亚的威廉玛丽学院。第一个晚上，他和新同学出去了，第二天早上见到我们时，他病了。他得了单核细胞增多症，但当时我们还不知道。我们以为他前一晚喝多了。
丹虚弱地趴在宿舍的床上，而我准备动身回家了。我很想跟他说些什么，在他开始人生新的阶段之际给他些勇气和信心。
结果，我又一次语塞。我咕哝了一句“丹，希望你早点儿好起来”便离开了。
此时，站在他面前，我想起了那些错过的机会。有多少次，我们让这样的时刻白白溜走？比如儿子毕业，再比如女儿出嫁。我们参加典礼就是走走过场，却没有特意找到孩子，找个安静的时刻告訴他们，他们对我们有多重要或者他们未来可能面对怎样的人生。
时间过得真快。1962年，丹尼尔在路易斯安那的新奥尔良出生。他学走路和说话都迟一些，个子也不高。他是班里个头最小的，但热情开朗，人缘很好。他协调性好，动作敏捷，在运动方面的特长渐渐显露。
棒球是他人生的第一项挑战。他在少年棒球联盟中是一名出色的投手，最终，高三时带领校队创下五胜两负的战绩，出场胜率达到50%。毕业时，教练提名丹尼尔为球队最有价值球员。
不过，他最辉煌的时刻是在学校举办的一次科学节上。他参加了一个展示循环系统工作原理的展览。他的参展作品简单而粗糙，与其他学生那些花里胡哨、装着闪光灯的电脑模型相比尤为明显。我的妻子萨拉都替他难为情。
原来，其他孩子的参展作品并非他们自己亲手做的，而是父母代劳的。评委照例开始逐一评审，他们发现那些孩子回答不出他们的问题，而丹尼尔却能一一作答。最后，评委们把授予最佳作品的阿尔伯特·爱因斯坦奖牌颁给了他。
丹尼尔刚上大学时身高6英尺，体重170磅。他肌肉发达，身体强健，但由于放弃棒球而选择了英国文学，他再也没打过一次棒球。我很遗憾他不再发挥自己的运动天赋，但也为他做出了这样一个理智的决定而骄傲。
有一天，我告诉丹尼尔，我人生中最大的缺憾就是大学毕业时没有抽出一两年的时间去旅行。在我看来，这是丰富阅历、开拓视野的最好途径。一旦成家立业，我发现体验异国文化的梦想早已消失了。
丹尼尔认真考虑了我说的这些。他的朋友们说，他要是把事业搁在一边，那就是疯了。但他认定这并没那么疯狂。毕业后，他在大学里做过服务员，还骑车送过快递，给人刷过房子。打工攒下的钱足够他去趟巴黎了。
他出发的前一天晚上，我在床上辗转反侧。我想找点儿话作为临别赠言，可脑子里一片空白。我想，也许没必要说什么了吧。
即使一个父亲一辈子都没告诉过儿子自己对他的真实看法，又有什么关系呢？但是，当我站在丹尼尔面前，我明白了那很重要。我的父亲爱我，我也爱他，然而，我始终遗憾从未听他说过心里话，也从未能拥有那一刻的记忆。现在，我能感觉到自己手心冒汗、喉咙发紧。为什么对儿子说几句心里话这么难？我嘴巴发干，知道自己只能清楚地吐出几个字。
“丹尼尔，”我说，“如果我能有机会选择，我也一定会选你。”
我能说出口的就这一句。我不确定他是否明白我的意思。他听到后向前一步，伸出双臂抱住了我。那一瞬间，似乎整个世界和所有人都消失了，只有我和丹尼尔站在海边的家里。
他说了些什么，但我的眼睛模糊了，我也没听明白他在说什么。我只感觉到他的脸贴着我的脸时他下巴上的胡茬。然后，这一刻结束了。我去上班，丹尼尔几个小时后和女友离开了。
那是七周前的事了，周末我在海滩上散步时就会想起他。在几千英里外大洋对岸的某个地方，远离拍打着荒芜海岸的海浪，他也许正飞奔着穿过圣日耳曼大道，或者漫步在罗浮宫散发着霉味的走廊上，又或者在一家左岸咖啡馆里点了杯酒。
我对丹尼尔说的话既笨拙又老套。什么也没说，然而，也说出了一切。