佚名/Anonymous
九岁时，父亲送我一束鲜花。那时，我已经上了六个月的踢踏舞蹈课。学校要举行年度实习公演。作为初级歌舞队的成员，我的心情格外激动，虽然我也知道自己参演的角色微不足道。
公演结束时，我异常吃惊地发现，自己的名字和领舞演员们的名字一起被点到了。我怀抱着一大束玫瑰站在舞台上的情形，至今历历在目：我满脸通红，透过绚丽的灯光向下张望，看见父亲一个劲儿地鼓掌，咧着嘴大笑。
在我人生的每个里程碑，都有鲜花陪伴，而这些玫瑰是我人生的第一束。它们令我很矛盾——兴奋而不知所措。我欢欣鼓舞，同时也因奢侈而感到极为不安。
可是父亲却不这样认为，他做任何事都很慷慨。如果你要他去面包房买一块蛋糕，他一定会买三块回来。一次，母亲对他说我需添置一套晚礼服，他就带回 家一打。
我要他的这种行为总是让我们没有多余的钱去办其他重要的事。“礼服”事件后，家里没钱买我需要的冬衣和我想要的新冰鞋。
我有时会生父亲的气，但持续时间不会太久，因为他总会给我点儿“小恩小惠”，让我与他和好。很显然，那些礼物是言语所无法表达的爱，让我情不自禁地去拥抱他，亲吻他——而我的举动毫无疑问地又放纵他大手大脚的行为，使其继续下去。
十六岁的生日时，我并不很开心。因为我很胖，没有男朋友，可父母却好心好意地给我张罗生日派对，这让我更痛苦。当我走进餐厅时，桌子上的蛋糕旁放着一大束鲜花，比以往的都要大。
我羞愧得想找个地缝钻进去，每个人都知道我没有男朋友，他们一定都知道这花是我父亲送的。本该是甜蜜的十六岁生日，我却只想哭。就在这时候，我要好的朋友菲力斯在我耳边轻声说：“亲爱的，你真幸运，有这么好的爸爸。”
许多年过去了，在我的生日、公开演出、颁奖仪式、毕业典礼这样的一些场合，都有父亲的鲜花陪伴。我的心情也不断地徘徊在欢欣与困窘中。
可我大学毕业时，这种矛盾困惑的日子结束了。我正在开展一番新事业，已经订婚，正准备结婚。父亲的鲜花显示了他的骄傲，也标志着我的成功，它们带给我们无限的欣喜。
如今，感恩节有鲜艳的菊花，圣诞节有粉红色的一品红，复活节 有圣洁的百合，生日宴会有娇艳欲滴的红玫瑰。一束束应季鲜花扎成庆祝我们搬入了第一个家。
我的经济状况不断好转，父亲却日益衰老，可鲜花却一直持续到他七十岁生日的前几个月，他因心脏病去世了。我没有丝毫困窘，尽力找来最大最红的玫瑰将他的灵柩盖满。
此后的十多年，我常会有种冲动，想买一大束花，把客厅装饰起来。可我并没那样做，我知道这是不一样的。
后来，一次我过生日，门铃响了。我正因孤独而沮丧：丈夫在打高尔夫；两个女儿也不在家；十三岁的儿子马特说了一声“待会儿见”就跑出去了，根本没提到我的生日。所以看到他高大的身影出现在门口时，我很吃惊。
“我忘带钥匙了，”他耸了耸肩说，“也忘了今天是您的生日。妈妈，我希望您会喜欢这些花。”说着，他从背后拿出一束雏菊。
“噢，马特，”我大声叫了出来，把他紧紧地抱在怀里，“我非常喜欢这些花！”
I was nine when my father sent me flowers.I had been taking tap-dancing lessons for six months，and the school was giving its yearly recital.As an excited member of the beginners’chorus line，I was aware of my lowly status.
So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long stemmed red roses.I can still feel myself standing on that case stage，blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father’s grin as he applauded loudly.
Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life.They brought a sense of ambivalence，of being caught between pleasure and embarrassment.I enjoyed them，but flustered by the extravagance.
Not my father.He did everything in a big way.If you sent him to the bakery for a cake，he came back with three.Once，when Mother told him I needed a new party dress，he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things.After the dress incident，there was no money for the winter coat I really needed or the new ice skates I wanted.
Sometimes I would be angry with him，but not for long.Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me.The gift was so apparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him—an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.
Then came my 16th birthday.It was not a happy occasion.I was fat and had no boyfriend.And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party.As I entered the dining room，there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers，bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide.Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it.Sweet 16，but I felt like crying.I probably would have，but my best friend，Phyllis，whispered，“Boy，you’re lucky to have a father like that.”
As the years passed，other occasions like birthdays，recitals，awards，graduations were marked with Dad’s flowers.My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.
When I graduated from college，though，my days of ambivalence were over.I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married.Dad’s flowers symbolized his pride，and my triumph.They evoked only great pleasure.
Now there were bright orange mums for thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas，white lilies at Easter，and velvety red roses for birthdays.Seasonal flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated the move to our first house.
As my fortunes grew，my father’s waned，but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday.Without embarrassment，I covered his coffin with the largest，reddest roses I could find.
Often in the dozen years since，I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room，but I never did.I knew it would not be the same.
Then one birthday，the doorbell rang.I was feeling blue because I was alone.My husband was playing golf，and my two daughters were away.My 13-yearold son，Matt，had run out earlier with a“see you later”，never mentioning my birthday.So I was surprised to see his large frame in the door.
“Forgot my key，”he said，shrugging.“Forgot your birthday too.Well，I hope you like flowers，Mom，”he pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.
“Oh，Matt，”I cried，hugging him hard，“I love flowers！”
