■默默的父爱
The Silent Love of a Father
◎Bert Clompus
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
名人语库
～J. August Strindberg
——斯特林堡
妈妈去世之后，我开始在每天上班之前都去探望爸爸。他身体虚弱，行走缓慢，但是，他总是亲手为我榨一杯鲜橙汁放在厨房桌子上，旁边还有一张不签名的纸条，写着：“把橙汁喝了。”我知道，这是他表达对我的爱的方式。事实上，至今我还记得，当我还是个孩子的时候，我问过妈妈：“为什么爸爸不爱我？”对此，妈妈皱起了眉头。“谁说他不爱你？”“可是，他从没告诉过我。”我抱怨道。“他从来也没告诉过我，”她说，脸上露出笑容，“但是，你看他为了照顾我们，给我们买吃的、穿的，支付房款，干活多拼命呀。这就是你爸爸表达爱我们的方式。”然后，妈妈抓着我的肩膀问道：“你明白了吗？”
我慢慢地点了点头。我的脑子明白，可心里还是不明白。我仍然想要爸爸拥抱我，告诉我他爱我。爸爸拥有并经营一家小型废金属处理厂。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，然后称赞我做的事，可是，他从来不叫我。因为让一个小男孩去干他干的活实在太危险，妈妈为爸爸的安全已经够担心了。爸爸用手把废金属
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 was the right time to say what I’d always wanted to.“I’m fifty years old, Dad, and you’ve never told
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巨大的剪刀，刀片比爸爸的身躯还要厚。伺候这台令人恐怖的机器太危险了，稍有不慎就会导致重伤。
“你为什么不雇一个人来替你干那活？”一天晚上，妈妈为爸爸涂气味强烈的搽剂，俯身为他按摩酸痛的肩膀时问道。“那你为什么不雇一名厨师？”爸爸反问道，难得地笑了一下。妈妈直起身子，双手叉在腰上：“埃克，你怎么啦？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，那你就雇得起厨师了呢！”爸爸大笑起来，这是我生平第一次感觉到爸爸的幽默感。不过，那台切割机不是他工厂里唯一的危险物。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机火车头发出的声音还要大。当他用它切割钢材时，无数熔化的金属粉末状液体喷射出来，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爸爸，喝完爸爸亲手为我榨的橙汁之后，走过去拥抱着他，说：“爸爸，我爱你。”从那以后，我每天早上都这样做。可是，爸爸从未告诉过我，我拥抱他时他是什么感受；而且在我拥抱他时，他的脸上从来没有任何表情。然而，一天早上，由于时间紧迫，我喝完橙汁就向门口走去。
爸爸一步跨到我面前，问道：“这个？”“这个什么？”我问道，可我心里一清二楚。“这个？”他又说了一遍，交叉着双臂东张西望，就是不看我。我格外使劲地抱了抱他。现在是说出我一直想说的话的最佳时刻了。“爸，我已经50岁了，可您从来没有对我说过您爱我。”父亲转身走开了，他拿起那只空杯子，把它洗干净放在一边。“您告诉过别
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, 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.
人您爱我，”我说，“但是我从没听到过。”看上去，爸爸感到不自在，很不自在。我走近他：“爸，我想听您说您爱我。”他后退了一步，双唇紧闭。他似乎想要说话，然后又摇摇头。“告诉我！”我大声说。“行吧！我爱你！”爸爸终于脱口而出，他的两只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发生了。他的眼中噙着泪珠，最后潸然泪下。
我站在他面前，震惊得说不出话来。这么多年后，我的心和脑子终于都了解到——了解到我的父亲如此爱我，以至于在说出他爱我时，居然流下泪来。以前他从不会流泪，更不用说在家人面前流泪。妈妈是对的。在我生命中的每一天，爸爸都在用行动和付出告诉我他有多爱我。“爸爸，我知道，”我说，“我知道。”现在，我终于明白了。