[英]沃尔特·哈林顿/Walt Harrington
父亲仍是我儿时记忆中的样子：浓密的头发，匀称的身材，黝黑的面庞，炯炯有神的眼睛。不同的是，现在的他温和而富有耐心。不知道是我变了，还是他变了。
我和儿子马修乘飞机去亚利桑那州探亲，马修六十七岁的爷爷为了给他演奏，正调试着吉他。“你听过‘噢，在野牛漫步的地方，给我一个家’吗？”父亲问。
那时，四岁的马修在沙发上蹦个不停，父亲不准他碰吉他，但他还是偶尔偷偷拨弄一下，嘴里嘟囔个不停。
我小的时候，父亲陪我的时间并不多。他是一个送奶工，每周工作七天。即便在工作时，他也像一个监工似的看管着我，把我那些捣乱的事统统加起来，晚上对我实施惩罚。通常是些恐吓的话，或只是指着我大骂一通。
尽管我们父子之间常有摩擦，但我从不怀疑父亲的爱，它是连接着我们的生命线，让我们一起度过了许多艰难岁月。我们拥有许多温馨的回忆：一起坐在沙发上看电视；漫步于伊利诺斯州克里特的小石路；黄昏唱着《红河谷》，驾车回家。
父亲常对我微笑，那种略带讽刺的赞美方式，让我知道他因我自豪，为我的成就而骄傲。他喜欢粗鲁地嘲弄人，我总能在他的奚落中感受伟大而无言的爱。长大后，我才懂得这是许多男人表达爱的方式——不会流露出自己感情的脆弱一面。于是，我便模仿他表达“我爱你”的方式，我会告诉他说，他的鼻子太大，或是领带打得太难看。
“对于一个男人来说，重要的是行动而非语言。”父亲经常这样说，言语和情绪都不可靠。他每天都工作，始终保护我，教我明辨是非，让我的思想和精神日益坚毅。这是我们之间联系的纽带，也是我们的屏障。
只是在有了自己的儿子后，我才开始思索父子之间的关系，并且开始真正清楚地认识和理解父亲。
男孩子大多会抱怨自己的父亲缺乏耐性。记得，我六岁时，一个雨天，父亲给奶奶家修屋顶，即使在晴天这也是一种危险的工作，更何况是雨天呢！我要帮他的忙，他不耐烦地说不用。我哭闹起来，记忆中唯一一次被打了屁股。多年后，提起这件事，他就笑，但我一直不觉得有什么幽默之处。
而今，当马修坚持要帮我漆房子或锯掉后院的枯树枝，我强耐住性子时，才能用父亲的眼光去看那天发生的事。谁能想到，我对父亲延续了三十年的恼怒，直到有了自己的儿子，并经历了相似的事情后才得以消除。我想，说不定儿子也在生我的气呢！
更令人惊讶的是，十几岁时，我坚信自己一点儿也不像父亲，但现在截然相反，我觉得自己与父亲有许多相像之处。我们有相同的幽默感和执拗的性格，甚至嗓音都十分相似。尽管我并不认为这些相似之处可取，但它们长在我骨子里，让我越来越喜欢。
前不久，马修问我：“儿子长大了就跟他的爸爸一样了，是吗？”这是儿子对真理的探索，我小心谨慎地回答：“不，”我说，“儿子在某些方面可以像他的父亲，但绝不完全就和他父亲一样，而是他们自己。”马修并没在意这些微妙之处。
“儿子会跟他的爸爸一样！”他反抗道，“他们一定会！”我没有争辩，反而感到很开心。
整个上午，我都很紧张，我和马修要离开亚利桑那回家，我决定要做一件我从未做过的事。
每个儿子都会有那样的时期，不论他怎样吹嘘自己的个性，总有令人厌恶的声音提醒，他始终是父亲的儿子。同样会有这样的时候——对我来说是这样——这种声音响起时，理解会消除两代之间的隔膜，使之相互融合。
于是，在我和儿子通过关卡登机前，我转过身，拥抱着父亲说：“我想让您知道我爱您，一直都爱您。”
My father still looks remarkably like I remember him when I was growing up：hair full，body trim，face tanned，eyes sharp.What’s different is his gentleness and patience.I had remembered neither as a boy，and I wondered which of us had changed.
My son Matthew and I had flown to Arizona for a visit，and his 67-year-old grandfather was tuning up his guitar to play for the boy.“You know‘Oh，Give Me a Home Where the Buffalo Roam’？”my father asked.
All the while，four-year-old Matthew was bouncing on the couch，furtively strumming the guitar he wasn’t supposed to touch and talking incessantly.
When I was a boy，my father wasn’t around much.He worked seven days a week as a milkman.But even at work he was the taskmaster in absentia.Infractions were added up，and at night he dispensed punishment，though rarely beyond a threatening voice or a scolding finger.
Despite our father-son struggles，I never doubted my father’s love，which was our lifeline through some pretty rough times.There are plenty of warm memories—he and I on the couch watching TV together，walking a gravel road in Crete，Ill.，at dusk，riding home in a car，singing“Red River Valley”.
He had this way of smiling at me，this way of tossing a backhanded compliment，letting me know he was proud of me and my achievements.He was a rugged teaser，and it was during his teasing that I always sensed his great unspoken love.When I was older，I would understand that this is how many men show affection without acknowledging vulnerability.And I imitated his way of saying“I love you”by telling him his nose was too big or his ties too ugly.
“It’s not what a man says，but what he does that counts.”he would say.Words and emotions were suspect.He went to work every day，he protected me，he taught me right from wrong，he made me tough in mind and spirit.It was our bond.It was our barrier.
It was only after having a boy of my own that I began to think a lot about the relationship between fathers and sons and to see—and to understand—my own father with remarkable clarity.
If there is a universal complaint from men about their fathers，it is that their dads lacked patience.I remember one rainy day when I was about six and my father was putting a new roof on his mother’s house，a dangerous job when it’s dry，much less wet.I wanted to help.He was impatient and said no.I made a scene and got the only spanking I can recall.He has chuckled at that memory many times over the years，but I never saw the humor.
Only now that I’ve struggled to find patience in myself when Matthew insists he help me paint the house or saw down dead trees in the back yard am I able to see that day through my father’s eyes.Who’d have guessed I’d be angry with my father for 30 years，until I relived similar experiences with my own son，who，I suppose，is angry now at me.More surprisingly，contrary to my teenage conviction that I wasn’t at all like my father，I have come to the greater realization.I am very much like him.We share the same sense of humor，same stubbornness，and same voice even.Although I didn’t always see these similarities as desirable，I have grown into them，come to like them.
Not long ago，Matthew asked me，“Sons can grow up to be their daddies，right？”This was no small struggling for insight，and I was careful in my response.“No，”I said，“sons can grow up to be like their daddies in some ways，but they can’t be their daddies.They must be themselves.”Matthew would hear nothing of these subtleties.“Sons can grow up to be their daddies！”He said defiantly.“They can.”I didn’t argue.It made me feel good.
All morning I am anxious.Matthew and I are about to leave Arizona for home，and I am determined to do something I have never done.
There is a time in every son’s life when he resents the echoes reminding him that，for all his vaunted individuality，he is his father’s son.But there should also come a time—as it had for me—when these echoes call out only the understanding that the generations have melded and blurred without threat.
So just before my son and I walk through the gate and onto our plane，I lean over，hug my father and say，“I want you to know that I love you.That I always have.”
