第7章 父爱无声Silent Father-love

佚名/Anonymous

妈妈去世后，我开始每天上班之前去看看爸爸。他身体虚弱，动作迟缓，但他总是亲手为我榨好一杯橙汁放在餐桌上，旁边放一张没有署名的便条，写着：“把橙汁喝了。”我知道，这是他向我表达爱的一种特殊方式。实际上，我仍然清楚地记得，小时候我曾问过妈妈：“为什么爸爸不喜欢我？”妈妈会皱起眉头，反问道：“谁说他不喜欢你？”“哦，可他从来没有告诉过我。”我抱怨道。“他也从没告诉过我，”她面带微笑地说，“但是，你看他拼命地工作赚钱，养活我们，要供我们吃穿，还要缴房款，这些行动都告诉我们，他是爱我们的。”然后，妈妈搂着我的肩膀说：“你明白了吗？”

我微微地点点头。我明白，但并不理解。我仍然渴望爸爸抱着我，亲口对我说他爱我。爸爸自己经营一家小型的废金属处理厂。放学后，我就围在他身边玩。他工作时，我总希望他能让我帮什么忙，然后夸我干得好。可他从不叫我。他的工作对一个小男孩来讲太危险了，妈妈为爸爸已经够担心的了。爸爸把废金属塞进一个机器里，这个机器就像屠夫剁骨头一样，顺利地切割着金属。它酷似一把巨大的剪刀，刀片比爸爸的身体还要厚。所以用这样的机器工作是极其危险的，稍有不慎便会严重受伤，其后果不堪设想。

“你为什么不雇人替你干这个活儿呢？”一天晚上，妈妈给爸爸按摩酸疼的肩膀，并涂抹一种气味浓烈的搽剂时问爸爸。“那你为什么不雇个厨师替你做饭呢？”爸爸反问道，并对她露出了少有的微笑。妈妈直起身子，双手叉在腰间问道：“怎么了，埃克？你难道不喜欢我做的饭？”“当然喜欢喽，如果我雇得起帮手的话，你就也能雇得起厨师了！”爸爸笑着说，这是我有生以来 第一次觉得爸爸其实是个幽默的人。那台切割机不是他工厂里唯一的危险物，还有一台更危险的，是用来切割厚钢板和粗钢条的乙炔炬。在我听来，那乙炔炬切割时所发出的声响比火车头的蒸汽机发出的还要大。用它切割钢材时，无数熔化了的金属粉末形成液滴，在爸爸周围四溅开来，就像一群愤怒的萤火虫一样。

多年以后，在我开始每天去看望爸爸的第一天，我喝完了他为我亲手榨的橙汁后，走到他跟前，搂住他说：“爸爸，我爱你！”从那以后，每天早上我都那样做。可是，爸爸从未告诉过我，我拥抱他时他有怎样的感觉；不仅如此，当我拥抱他时，他甚至都面无表情。而后的又一天早上，由于时间赶不及，我喝完橙汁就向门外走去。

爸爸跨步到我面前问道：“这个？”“噢，什么？哪个？”我明知故问。“这个！”他重复着，交叉着双臂，目光游离，可就是不看我。我更用力地搂了搂他。现在是时候该说出我一直想说的话了：“爸，我已经50岁了，可你却从没对我说过一句你爱我。”爸爸转身走开了，他把那个空杯子拿去，洗干净放好。“你对别人说你爱我，”我说，“可我从没听你亲口对我说过。”

父亲看上去有些不自在，非常不自在。我走到他跟前说：“爸爸，我想让你告诉我你爱我。”他双唇紧闭，向后退了一步，欲言又止地摇了摇头。“告诉我啊！”我大声喊道。“好吧，我爱你！”父亲终于说出口了，他双手如受伤的小鸟一样颤抖着。刹那间，我看到了有生以来从未见过的情景：他双眼噙满泪水，簌簌地落下。

我呆呆地站在他面前，一句话也说不出来。毕竟这么多年了，我最终还是理解了父亲的爱——我知道了他是多么爱我，以至于他在说出爱我时，居然能激动得热泪盈眶。以前他可从来不会流泪，更不用说是在家人面前流泪了。妈妈是对的。在我生命的每一天，爸爸都是在用无言的行动对我说着他爱我。“我知道，爸爸，”我说，“我知道。”最终我明白了，也理解了。

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 doesn’t Dad love me？”Mom frowned，“Who said he doesn’t 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.That’s 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 he’d 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 he’d 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 father’s body.If he didn’t feed those terrifying blades just right，he risked serious injury.

“Why don’t 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 don’t you hire a cook？”Dad asked，giving her one of his rare smiles.Mom straightened and put her hands on her hips.“What’s the matter，Ike？Don’t 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 wasn’t 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.

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 it was the right time to say what I’d always wanted to，“I’m fifty years old，Dad，and you’ve 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.“You’ve told other people you love me，”I said，“but I’ve 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，his lips pressed together.He seemed about to speak，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，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.