只愿情永在

像往常一般，我們坐在前排靠中間的座位上，和舞臺隔著四排座位，這樣我們就能完美捕捉到兒子表演時所有的重點。當然，我因此也能拍到這場音樂會的理想照片。

當時正值五月末，我和妻子坐在那兒，感覺很傷感。我們想著同樣的東西，卻都安靜地坐著暗自思忖。這是我們小兒子念高中的最后一場音樂會……我們不禁感傷，真難以置信，這也是我們最后一次參與孩子在學校的匯報表演了。

時間都溜到哪兒去了？就在昨天，他一直挨著我們坐，先是看他姐姐，而后是看他哥哥參加音樂演出或是運動賽事。現在，我們看著最小的孩子，已經在念高三，臨近畢業了。

馬馬羅內克高中每年都有這么個極好的儀式慣例：在年度春季音樂會的最后向高三畢業生致敬，讓他們逐一上臺簡單講講體會和未來目標。大學！我和妻子靜靜地坐在那兒，感到自豪、欣喜，卻淚眼朦朧。

我們感到悲傷。

當我們走出禮堂尋找我們的兒子時，我們看見他和他的密友手挽著手站在一起，正兒八經地在合照。他向我們走來。我們一如往常地在音樂會結束后，習慣性地擁抱了一下，然后告訴他，我們感到多么自豪，他是多么的棒。但我們注意到，他當時感到有點難受，眼里含著淚水。

我們問他是否還好。他抑制住淚水看著我們，說道：“我只是無法相信高中生活就這么結束了。真讓人難過。”

我看著我的兒子，很自豪于看到他能在顯然已哽咽的朋友們面前安然地流露自己的感情。我記得在早幾年前，我對妻子說過的那些話：“能感到悲傷是件幸運的事。”

我看著羅布，提醒他說：“你擁有過一段特別的時光，交了這么多的密友，能經歷過這段往后會真心懷念的時光，你是幸運的。”他點點頭。

談及家庭，我和妻子與咱們的許多密友一般，有著跟其他父母不太一樣的看法。過去這些年里，每到要送孩子去野營或上大學的時候，總有些人會說：“你真幸運……你肯定一下子輕松了不少。你自由啦！”當公交車載著孩子離開時，我們會看見一些父母相互歡欣擊掌，有些還會喃喃自語道：“他們終于走了。”

我一直都沒有弄懂他們。我們會坐在車里，靜靜地把車開回家，但明顯感覺到有些沮喪。我們也曾懷疑自己是否有些奇怪，因為我們沒有將分離視為從父母重責中“解放”出來的時機。 后來我們覺得自己其實一點也不奇怪，反而是很幸運。我們擁有的這群子女，是我們喜歡相伴身旁，會想念記掛的子女。

三年前，差不多是這個時候，馬馬羅內克高中為其高三畢業生舉行慶祝儀式，我們的第二個孩子在列隊行進音樂中邁進。那是完美的一天，我和妻子都在現場鼓掌、歡呼，并且接下來如往常一般，為將要結束高中生活的維爾和他的朋友們拍照。

我們的兒子去參加畢業派對了，遲些再和我們匯合。我和妻子坐在車里，等著綠燈亮就把車開出高中校園的停車場。我還清晰地記得那一刻。我的喉嚨哽住了，我看了看妻子，她正坐在那兒，滿眼是淚。“我會沒事的，”她說，“我會很想念他的。只是感到很難過。”

那次是我第一次有了這種想法——能感到悲傷對于我們來說是件幸運的事。

好吧。這樣看來，我和妻子是有些多愁善感。但事實是，我們珍惜我們的家庭生活——看著我們的孩子們長大，成為他們生命中的一部分。我想，如果之前相伴度過的日子不是那么甜蜜，如果我們不曾擁有讓人懷念的這些年月，我們夫妻倆也許就會歡欣擊掌，暢快地開車離開學校。

威爾畢業前的幾年前，我第一次開車載著女兒去上大學。不只是隨隨便便的某所大學，而是我畢業的大學。那是一種多么復雜的情緒——我重新體驗了一番那些曾度過的時光，在前往伊薩卡鎮的長途行駛中和女兒分享一個個故事，希望她不會重蹈我的覆轍，同時也好奇自己將懷著一種怎樣的感受獨自長途開車回家。

我們到了，參加了新生介紹會，見了室友的家人，還幫著布置了大一新生宿舍。不知不覺就已經到了要離開的時候了。

珍陪我一塊走到車那頭。只有我們兩個人。我直視著她的眼，提醒她所有她將收獲的樂趣，所有她需要當心的事，以及我多么愛她，我們所有人都會多么想念她。我將永不會忘記那一刻，對我來說，當時我是如此難受……

她走了，穿過停車場，跟室友碰頭，一起繼續往前走，經過地勢低一些的方院，走向即將開始的新生集會。我站在車旁，就看著她走過那塊地方——我的腦子里涌現出多年來的種種回憶，我不敢相信她已十八歲了。想到她真的要獨自前行，我感覺內心隱隱作痛，我決定看著她走，直到她消失在人群當中，然后我才回家。就在我準備轉身的那刻，珍停下了腳步，遠遠地在那個方院里，在她準備走入人群中的那個地方，轉過了身。她把手舉在空中，向我揮手。

我永遠不會忘記那次的揮手，你知道嗎，她也永遠不會忘記的。

直到今天，每次當我們前往不同的方向，我們總會相互揮手。

而每一次當我看見那揮手時，我意識到我們實在太幸運了，能擁有曾度過的這些時光，能成為如此親密的家人。

下周，我們的小羅比將從馬馬羅內克高中畢業。我們會感到悲傷。但我們知道，能擁有如此的感受，我們是多么的幸運。

We sat， as always， front and center， four rows from the stage so we could have that all-important perfect view of our son performing. And， of course， so I could get ideal photos of the concert.

It was late May. My wife and I sat there feeling rather sentimental， thinking the same things but sitting quietly， keeping thoughts to ourselves. This was our youngests last high school concert—and to our sad disbelief it was also ours.

Where had the time gone？ Just yesterday， hed been sitting next to us， watching first his sister， then his older brother perform in some music or sporting event. Now we were watching our youngest， a senior in high school， nearing graduation.

Mamaroneck High School has a wonderful ritual each year： to conclude the annual spring concert by honoring the graduating seniors， calling them each to the stage with a few words about their experience and where they are each heading off to next. College！ My wife and I sat there quietly； proud， beaming， but misty-eyed.

We were sad.

As we walked out of the auditorium looking for our son， we saw him standing with his closest friends， arm in arm， posing for the parent photos. He came over to us； we hugged as we always do after a concert， telling him how proud we were， how awesome he was. But we noticed that he was having a bit of a tough time. He had tears in his eyes.

We asked if he was OK. He looked at us， holding back tears， and said， “I just cant believe its over. Its really sad.”

I looked at my son， proud he was comfortable showing his emotions amongst his friends who were also clearly choked up. And I remembered the words I said to my wife a few years earlier： “Youre lucky to be sad.”

I looked at Rob and reminded him， “Youve had a special time； youve made so many good close friends. You are lucky to have had the kind of time that you will truly miss.” He nodded.

When it comes to family， my wife and I， like many of our close friends， have looked at things a bit differently from other parents. Over the years， when it was time to send our kids off to camp or college， there would be those whod say， “Lucky you—you must be so relieved. You have your freedom！” Wed see parents high-fiving each other as the buses drove away， several muttering to themselves， “Finally， they are gone.”

We never understood them. We would sit in the car driving home quietly but clearly a bit depressed. Wed wonder if we were strange to not be seeing the separation as some parentally liberating event. We decided we werent strange at all， just lucky. To have kids we preferred being with， children we would miss.

It was three years ago， nearly to the day. Our middle child was walking through the processional as Mamaroneck High School celebrated its graduating seniors. It was a perfect day and there we were， my wife and I， applauding， cheering and then， as always， photographing Will and all his friends as they left the high school field.

Our son was off to a graduation party and would meet us later. My wife and I sat in the car at the stop light， waiting to pull out of the high school parking lot. I remember the moment vividly. With a lump in my throat， I looked over to my wife， and she was sitting there with tears in her eyes. “Ill be OK，” she said. “Im going to miss him so much. Its just so sad.”

Thats when I first had the thought—we are lucky to be sad.

OK. So my wife and I are a bit on the sappy side. But the truth is we have cherished our home-life， watching our kids grow up， being a part of their lives. I suppose that if it hadnt been so sweet， if we hadnt had year after year of times we would miss， wed be driving away from the school high-fiving each other.

Several years before Wills graduation I drove my daughter to college for the first time. Not just any college. My college. What a mix of emotions that was—reliving the times Id had， sharing the stories on the long drive to Ithaca， hoping she wouldnt do the things Id done， wondering how Id feel making the long drive home alone.

We arrived， managed through the orientations， met the roommates family and helped set up the freshman dorm room. Before I knew it， it was time to leave.

Jen walked me to the car. It was just the two of us. I looked her in the eyes， reminded her of all the fun she would have， all the care she needed to take， how much I loved her and how much we would all miss her. I will never forget this moment and how tough it was—for me， that is.

She walked away through the parking lot， joined her roommate， and proceeded down the lower quad toward the incoming freshman gathering. I stood by the car just watching her cross the field， years of memories rushing through my mind， with disbelief that she was eighteen， with an ache in my stomach that she was really heading off on her own I decided I would watch her walk until I lost her in the crowd and then I would head home. It was just at the moment I was about to turn， when she did. Jennie stopped， turned from far across the quad where she was about to enter the crowd. She put her hand up in the air and waved to me.

I will never forget that wave， and you know what， nor will she.

To this day， we wave to each other every time we head off in different directions.

And every time I see that wave， I realize how lucky weve all been to have had the times weve had and to be the close family weve become.

Next week， our young Rob graduates from Mamaroneck High School. We will be sad. But we know how lucky we are to feel the way we do.