It was a transitional time in Daniel's life, a passage, a step from college into the adult world. I wanted to leave him with 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 on Long Island. Outside, I could hear the shrill cries of sea gulls as they circled the ever-changing surf. 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 color flush his cheeks as the bus pulled up. His questioning eyes looked up at mine.
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 the College of William and Mary in Virginia. His first night, he went out with his new schoolmates. 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 some 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 parent dies, and, instead of giving a eulogy ourselves, we let a clergyman speak. A child asks if Santa Claus is real, or where babies come from, and, embarrassed, we slough it off. When a daughter graduates or a son is married, we watch them 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, 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, expecting to make it big in high school. It didn't happen that way. He failed to move up from the junior varsity team. But he stuck it out. Eventually, as a senior, he moved up to the varsity. He won half the team's games. 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. He sketched it on cardboard. 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. He found that he could not combine athletics with academics. He gave 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. He graduated with a "B" average.
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 Yuppie 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, 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 lifetime 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. 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.
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, and Daniel left for France.
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 said to Daniel was clumsy and trite. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything.
在我家門口，我在23歲的兒子丹尼爾，他的背包就放在身旁的臉仔細(xì)地看了看。我們說再見了。再過幾個小時，他將飛往法國。他將在那里停留了至少一年的學(xué)習(xí)在不同的國家另一種語言，體驗生活。
這是丹尼爾的生活，一個通道，從大學(xué)一踏進(jìn)成人世界的過渡時間。我想離開他，將有一定的意義，一定意義超越了一會兒話。
但沒有來自我的嘴唇。無聲音打斷了我的海濱的家在長島的寂靜。外面，當(dāng)他們盤旋千變?nèi)f化的沖浪我能聽到海鷗的哭聲凄厲。在里面，我站在冷凍和安靜，注視著兒子的眼睛搜索。
是什么讓更困難的是，我知道這是不是第一次我讓這樣的時刻傳球。丹尼爾五歲的時候，我把他送到了學(xué)校，公交車站上了幼兒園的第一天。我感到緊張手里拿著我的作為總線轉(zhuǎn)危為安。我看到的顏色刷新他的臉頰作為總線上拉。他質(zhì)疑的目光在我的抬頭。
它是什么會像爸爸？我可以做嗎？我會好嗎？然后他走到公交車的臺階上，消失中。而公交車開走了。而我什么也沒有說。
大約十年后，類似的一幕再次上演盡。與他的母親，我開車把他送到威廉和瑪麗在弗吉尼亞大學(xué)。他的第一個晚上，他出去與他的新同學(xué)。當(dāng)他第二天早上迎接我們，他生病了。他出現(xiàn)白血球增多，但我們無法知道呢。我們以為他只是喝多了。
在他的房間里，丹展現(xiàn)在他的床上，我開始離開了回家的路。我試圖想的東西說給他一定的勇氣和信心，他開始人生的新階段。
同樣，失敗的話我。我咕噥了一句，“希望你感覺更好，丹�！蔽译x開。
現(xiàn)在，我站在他面前，我想到了那些失去的機會。多少次，我們讓這樣的時刻通過？
父母死亡，而且，而不是給悼詞自己，我們讓牧師講話。一個孩子詢問圣誕老人是真實的，或在嬰兒從哪里來，有些不好意思，我們蛻其關(guān)閉。當(dāng)女兒畢業(yè)或兒子結(jié)婚，我們看他們經(jīng)過熱鬧的場面。但是，我們不尋求我們的孩子，找一個安靜的時間來告訴他們什么，他們都意味著給我們。或者，他們可能希望面對未來的歲月里。
如何快速的歲月已經(jīng)過去了。丹尼爾出生于新奧爾良，慢慢地走路和說話，身材矮小的。他是班里最小的，但他開發(fā)了一個溫暖，外向的性格和當(dāng)時流行與他的同齡人。他協(xié)調(diào)，敏捷，而他也成為了運動高手。
棒球給了他最早的挑戰(zhàn)。他在小聯(lián)盟的一個出色的投手，希望使其在高中大。它沒有發(fā)生過這種方式。他沒有從后備隊拉升。但他堅持了。最后，作為一個前輩，他上升到了校隊。他贏了一半的球隊的比賽。在畢業(yè)時，教練名叫丹尼爾的球隊的最有價值球員。
他最輝煌的時刻，卻是在一所學(xué)校的科學(xué)公平的。他走進(jìn)展示循環(huán)系統(tǒng)參加了這次展覽。他勾勒出它在紙板上。特別是相對于花哨的，其他學(xué)生進(jìn)入電腦，閃爍光模式這是相形見絀。我的妻子莎拉，替兒子感到臉紅。
原來，其他孩子沒有做自己的本職工作 - 他們的父母做了他們的展品。作為評委對他們的輪去，他們發(fā)現(xiàn)這些孩子不能回答他們的問題。丹尼爾回答每一個。當(dāng)評委授予愛因斯坦牌匾展品，它們交給了他。
丹尼爾剛進(jìn)大學(xué)的時候，他站在身高六英尺，體重170磅。他是肌肉和高超的條件。但他從未投另一局。他發(fā)現(xiàn)，他無法與學(xué)者結(jié)合競技。他放棄了棒球英國文學(xué)。我很抱歉，他不會培養(yǎng)自己的運動天賦，但自豪的是，他做了這樣一個慎重的決定。他畢業(yè)于一個“B”的平均水平。
有一天，我告訴丹尼爾我一生中的失誤就是我沒拿一兩年的時間周游列國時，我大學(xué)畢業(yè)。
這是的方式，我的思維方式，拓寬自己的發(fā)展對生活更大的視角。有一次，我已經(jīng)結(jié)婚了，開始工作時，我發(fā)現(xiàn)，生活在另一種文化的夢想已經(jīng)消失了。
丹尼爾想到這個問題。他的雅痞的朋友說，他會瘋狂的把他的職業(yè)生涯擱置。但他決定還是不那么瘋狂。畢業(yè)后，他當(dāng)過服務(wù)生，是個郵遞員，和刷墻。他用賺來的錢，他攢足了去巴黎。
之前，他是要離開的晚上，我在床上輾轉(zhuǎn)難眠。我試圖找出話要說。沒有浮現(xiàn)在腦海。也許，我認(rèn)為，沒有必要說什么。
是什么在一生的過程中的問題，如果一個父親從來不告訴他真正想到他一個兒子？但是，當(dāng)我面對著丹尼爾，我知道這很重要。我父親和我彼此相愛。但是，我總是后悔從來沒有聽過他說心里話，更永遠(yuǎn)不必那一刻的記憶。
現(xiàn)在，我能感覺到我的手心出汗，我的喉嚨發(fā)緊。為什么這么難分辨的心臟兒子的東西嗎？我的嘴唇變得干燥。我知道我將能夠清晰地吐出幾個字而已。
“丹尼爾，”我說，“如果我能有回升，我會選你�！�
這就是我能說。我不知道他明白了我的意思。然后，他朝我走過來，把我扔在他的懷里。一時間，世界和所有的人消失了，只是有丹尼爾和我。
他在說什么，但我的眼睛模糊了過來，我聽不懂他在說什么。我所知道的是他下巴的胡子茬的臉上壓在我的。然后，一瞬間結(jié)束了，丹尼爾離開法國。
我想他的時候我周末在海邊散步。千里之外的某個地方過去海浪打破這個荒蕪海岸，他可能是整個大道圣日爾曼亂竄，經(jīng)過盧浮宮的霉味走廊漫步，彎曲的左岸咖啡館的手肘。
我對丹尼爾說的笨拙和陳腐。這沒什么。然而，這就是一切。
