默默的父爱

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.

我妈去世之后，我开始在每天上班之前都去探望一下我爸。他身体虚弱，行动缓慢，但是，他总是亲手为我榨好一杯新鲜橘子汁放在厨房桌子上，旁边有一张不签名的纸条，上边写着：“把橘子汁喝了。”我明白，这是他表达他对我的爱所能采取的方式。

事实上，至今我还记得，孩提时代我问过我妈：“为什么我爸不爱我？”对此，我妈皱起了眉头：“谁说他不爱你？”“可是，他从来没告诉过我。”我抱怨道。“他也从来没告诉过我。”她说，脸上露出笑容，“不过，你看他为了养活我们，给我们买吃的、穿的，缴纳房款，干活多拼命呀。这就是你爸表达他爱我们的方式。”然后，我妈抓着我的肩膀问：“你明白吗？”

我慢慢地点了点头。我脑子明白，可心里还是不明白。我仍然想要我爸拥抱我，告诉我他爱我。爸爸办了一家小的废金属处理厂。放学后，在他工作时，我经常在他身边玩耍。我总希望他会叫我帮忙，然后夸我活干得好，可是，他从来不叫我。因为让一个小男孩去干那种活实在太危险，我妈已经够担心我爸的安全了。我爸用手把废金属塞进一个装置，这个装置像屠夫剁肋骨那样，利索地切割金属。这台机器看上去像一把硕大无比的剪刀，它的刀片比我爸的身躯还要厚。伺候这台恐怖的机器是极其危险的，稍有不慎就会受重伤。

“你干吗不雇一个人来替你干那个活？”一天晚上，我妈俯下身来，给我爸酸痛的肩膀涂上气味很浓的搽剂并进行按摩时，这么问道。“你干吗不雇一名厨师？”我爸反问，并对我妈难得地笑了一下。我妈直起身子，双手叉在腰上：“埃克，你怎么了？难道你不喜欢我做的菜？”“我当然喜欢你做的饭菜啦。可是，如果我雇得起帮手，那你就雇得起厨师。”我爸大笑起来，这是我生平第一次感到我爸其实有幽默感。

不过，那台切割机不是他厂子里唯一的危险物，他还有一台乙炔炬，用来切割厚钢板和粗钢条。在我听来，那乙炔炬发出的切割声比蒸汽火车头发出的声音还要大。当我爸用它切割钢材时，无数熔化了的金属的粉末状液滴喷射出来，在他周围飞溅，就像一群愤怒的萤火虫。

许多年之后，在我第一次离家前看望我爸时，我喝完我爸亲手为我榨的橘子汁，走过去搂住他，对他说：“爸，我爱你。”从此我每天早上都这样做。可是，我爸从未告诉过我，我拥抱他时他是什么感觉，而且我拥抱他时，他脸上从来没有任何表情。然后，一天早上，由于赶时间，我喝完橘子汁就向门口走去。

爸爸一步跨到我面前，说：“这个！”“这个什么？”我问，其实我心中一清二楚。“这个！”他重复了一遍，双臂交叉，东张西望，就是不看我。我格外使劲地搂了搂他。现在是说出我一直想要说的话的最佳时刻了：“爸，我已经50岁了，可你从来没有对我说过你爱我。”父亲转身走开了，他拿起那只空杯子，把它洗干净放好。“你告诉过别人你爱我。”我说，“可是我从未听你说过这话。”看上去，父亲感到不自在，很不自在。我走近他：“爸，我想听你说你爱我。”他后退了一步，双唇紧闭。他好像要说话，然后又摇摇头。“告诉我！”我大声说。“行吧！我爱你！”父亲终于说出来了，他的手颤抖得像受伤的小鸟。在那一瞬间，我一生中从未见过的情形出现了：他的眼中噙着泪珠，最后终于潸然泪下。

我站在他面前，惊得说不出话来。这么多年后，我的心和我的头终于统一了认识——我认识到我的父亲如此爱我，以至于在说出他爱我时，他居然流下泪来。以前他从来不会流泪，更不用说在家人面前流泪。我妈是对的。我生命中的每一天，我爸都在用行动和付出对我说着他爱我。“爸，我知道，”我说，“我知道。”最后我终于明白了。endprint