默默的父愛

佚名等

After Mom died， I began visiting Dad every morning before I went to work. He was frail and moved slowly， but he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the kitchen table for me， along with an unsigned note reading， “Drink your juice.” Such a gesture， I knew， was as far as Dad had ever been able to go in expressing his love.

In fact， I remember， as a kid I had questioned Mom， “Why doesnt Dad love me？” Mom frowned， “Who said he doesnt love you？” “Well， he never tells me，” I complained. “He never tells me either，” she said， smiling. “But look how hard he works to take care of us， to buy us food and clothes， and to pay for this house. Thats how your father tells us he loves us.” Then Mom held me by the shoulders and asked， “Do you understand？”

I nodded slowly. I understood in my head， but not in my heart. I still wanted my father to put his arms around me and tell me he loved me. Dad owned and operated a small scrap metal business， and after school I often hung around while he worked. I always hoped hed ask me to help and then praise me for what I did. He never asked. His tasks were too dangerous for a young boy to attempt， and Mom was already worried enough that hed hurt himself. Dad hand fed scrap steel into a device that chopped it as cleanly as a butcher chops a rack of ribs. The machine looked like a giant pair of scissors， with blades thicker than my fathers body. If he didnt feed those terrifying blades just right， he risked serious injury.

“Why dont you hire someone to do that for you？” Mom asked Dad one night as she bent over him and rubbed his aching shoulders with a strong smelling liniment. “Why dont you hire a cook？” Dad asked， giving her one of his rare smiles. Mom straightened and put her hands on her hips. “Whats the matter， Ike？ Dont you like my cooking？” “Sure I like your cooking. But if I could afford a helper， then you could afford a cook.” Dad laughed， and for the first time I realized that my father had a sense of humor.

The chopping machine wasnt the only hazard in his business. He had an acetylene torch for cutting thick steel plates and beams. To my ears， the torch hissed louder than a steam locomotive， and when he used it to cut through steel， it blew off thousands of tiny pieces of molten metal that swarmed around him like angry fireflies.

Many years later， during my first daily visit， after drinking the juice my father had squeezed for me， I walked over， hugged him and said， “I love you， Dad.” From then on I did this every morning. My father never told me how he felt about my hugs， and there was never any expression on his face when I gave them. Then one morning， pressed for time， I drank my juice and made for the door.endprint

Dad stepped in front of me and asked， “Well！” “Well what？” I asked， knowing exactly what. “Well！” he repeated， crossing his arms and looking everywhere but at me. I hugged him extra hard. Now was the right time to say what Id always wanted to， “Im fifty years old， Dad， and youve never told me you love me.” My father stepped away from me. He picked up the empty juice glass， washed it and put it away. “Youve told other people you love me，” I said. “But Ive never heard it from you.” Dad looked uncomfortable， very uncomfortable. I moved closer to him， “Dad， I want you to tell me you love me.” Dad took a step back， and his lips pressed together. He seemed about to speak， and then shook his head. “Tell me！” I shouted. “All right I love you，” Dad finally blurted， his hands fluttering like wounded birds. And in that instant， something occurred that I had never seen happen in my life. His eyes glistened， and then overflowed.

I stood before him， stunned and silent. Finally， after all these years， my heart joined my head in understanding. My father loved me so much that just saying so made him weep， which was something he never， ever wanted to do， least of all in front of family. Mom had been right. Every day of my life Dad had told me how much he loved me by what he did and what he gave. “I know， Dad，” I said. “I know.” And now at last I did.

我媽去世之后，我開始在每天上班之前都去探望一下我爸。他身體虛弱，行動緩慢，但是，他總是親手為我榨好一杯新鮮橘子汁放在廚房桌子上，旁邊有一張不簽名的紙條，上邊寫著：“把橘子汁喝了。”我明白，這是他表達他對我的愛所能采取的方式。

事實上，至今我還記得，孩提時代我問過我媽：“為什么我爸不愛我？”對此，我媽皺起了眉頭：“誰說他不愛你？”“可是，他從來沒告訴過我。”我抱怨道。“他也從來沒告訴過我。”她說，臉上露出笑容，“不過，你看他為了養活我們，給我們買吃的、穿的，繳納房款，干活多拼命呀。這就是你爸表達他愛我們的方式。”然后，我媽抓著我的肩膀問：“你明白嗎？”

我慢慢地點了點頭。我腦子明白，可心里還是不明白。我仍然想要我爸擁抱我，告訴我他愛我。爸爸辦了一家小的廢金屬處理廠。放學后，在他工作時，我經常在他身邊玩耍。我總希望他會叫我幫忙，然后夸我活干得好，可是，他從來不叫我。因為讓一個小男孩去干那種活實在太危險，我媽已經夠擔心我爸的安全了。我爸用手把廢金屬塞進一個裝置，這個裝置像屠夫剁肋骨那樣，利索地切割金屬。這臺機器看上去像一把碩大無比的剪刀，它的刀片比我爸的身軀還要厚。伺候這臺恐怖的機器是極其危險的，稍有不慎就會受重傷。

“你干嗎不雇一個人來替你干那個活？”一天晚上，我媽俯下身來，給我爸酸痛的肩膀涂上氣味很濃的搽劑并進行按摩時，這么問道。“你干嗎不雇一名廚師？”我爸反問，并對我媽難得地笑了一下。我媽直起身子，雙手叉在腰上：“埃克，你怎么了？難道你不喜歡我做的菜？”“我當然喜歡你做的飯菜啦。可是，如果我雇得起幫手，那你就雇得起廚師。”我爸大笑起來，這是我生平第一次感到我爸其實有幽默感。

不過，那臺切割機不是他廠子里唯一的危險物，他還有一臺乙炔炬，用來切割厚鋼板和粗鋼條。在我聽來，那乙炔炬發出的切割聲比蒸汽火車頭發出的聲音還要大。當我爸用它切割鋼材時，無數熔化了的金屬的粉末狀液滴噴射出來，在他周圍飛濺，就像一群憤怒的螢火蟲。

許多年之后，在我第一次離家前看望我爸時，我喝完我爸親手為我榨的橘子汁，走過去摟住他，對他說：“爸，我愛你。”從此我每天早上都這樣做。可是，我爸從未告訴過我，我擁抱他時他是什么感覺，而且我擁抱他時，他臉上從來沒有任何表情。然后，一天早上，由于趕時間，我喝完橘子汁就向門口走去。

爸爸一步跨到我面前，說：“這個！”“這個什么？”我問，其實我心中一清二楚。“這個！”他重復了一遍，雙臂交叉，東張西望，就是不看我。我格外使勁地摟了摟他。現在是說出我一直想要說的話的最佳時刻了：“爸，我已經50歲了，可你從來沒有對我說過你愛我。”父親轉身走開了，他拿起那只空杯子，把它洗干凈放好。“你告訴過別人你愛我。”我說，“可是我從未聽你說過這話。”看上去，父親感到不自在，很不自在。我走近他：“爸，我想聽你說你愛我。”他后退了一步，雙唇緊閉。他好像要說話，然后又搖搖頭。“告訴我！”我大聲說。“行吧！我愛你！”父親終于說出來了，他的手顫抖得像受傷的小鳥。在那一瞬間，我一生中從未見過的情形出現了：他的眼中噙著淚珠，最后終于潸然淚下。

我站在他面前，驚得說不出話來。這么多年后，我的心和我的頭終于統一了認識——我認識到我的父親如此愛我，以至于在說出他愛我時，他居然流下淚來。以前他從來不會流淚，更不用說在家人面前流淚。我媽是對的。我生命中的每一天，我爸都在用行動和付出對我說著他愛我。“爸，我知道，”我說，“我知道。”最后我終于明白了。endprint