In the doorway of my home, I looked closely at the face of my 23-year-old son, Daniel. In a few hours he would be flying to France to experience life. It was a transitional time in Daniel's life. I wanted to leave him some words that would have some meaning, some significance. But nothing came from my lips. 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. He asked, “What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it? “ 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 later, a similar scene played itself out. I drove him to College. As I started to leave for the trip home. I tried to think of something to say to give him courage and confidence as he started this new phase of life.
Again, words failed me.
Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those lost opportunities. How many times have we all let such moments pass? I don’t find a quiet moment to tell them what they have meant to us. Or what they might expect to face in the years ahead. Maybe I thought it was not necessary to say anything.
What does it matter in the course of a life-time 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, and 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. What I had said to Daniel was clumsy. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything.
在家门口，我凝视着23岁的儿子丹尼尔的脸，他的背包就放在身旁。他的背包就放在身旁。我们即将道别几个小时之后，他就要飞往法国，在那里待上至少一年的时间。他要学习另一种语言学习法语，并在一个全新的国度体验新的生活。
这是丹尼尔生命中的一个过渡时期，也是他从象牙塔进入成人世界踏出的一步。我希望送给他几句话，几句能令让他受用终身的话语。
但我竟一句话也说不出来。我们的房子坐落在海边，此刻屋里静寂无声。屋外，海鸥在波涛澎湃的长岛海域上空盘旋，我能听见它们发出的尖叫。我就这样站在屋里，默默地注视着儿子那双困惑的眼睛。
更糟的是，我很清楚自己已经不是第一次让如此重要的时光白白流逝。丹尼尔五岁的时候，那是幼儿园开学的第一天，我领着他来到校车的上落点。当校车在拐角处出现时，他的小手紧紧地攥着我，我感觉到了他的不安。校车到站那一刻，丹尼尔双颊发红，抬头望着我——就像现在这样。
爸爸，接下来会怎样呢？我能行么？我会没事吗？说着，他上了校车，消失在我的视野里。车开走了，我却始终开不了口。
十多年后，这一幕再次上演。我与妻子开车送丹尼尔到维吉尼亚州的威廉玛丽学院读书。抵达在学校的第一个晚上，丹尼尔和舍友们一起外出。次日清晨再见到丹尼尔时，他感到身体不适。其实当时他体内已出现白血球增多，但当时我们并不知道，以为他只是喝多了而已。
我正准备启程回家时，丹尼尔正在宿舍的床上躺着。我很想说一些鼓励的话语，在他的新生活伊始给他勇气与信心。
但是，我再一次语塞。我只是咕哝了一句“希望你快点好起来，丹尼尔”就转身离开了。
此时此刻，站在丹尼尔面前，我想起了那些被错过的时刻。究竟多少次，我们让这些珍贵的时刻白白溜走？例如儿子的毕业典礼，女儿的婚礼等等。我们疲于应付这些热闹的场面，却没有在人群中逮住孩子，找个安静的地方，亲口说出他们对我们有多么重要，或者与他们聊聊未来的人生。
有一次，我告诉丹尼尔我一生中最大的失误就是大学刚毕业时，没能抽出一两年的时间周游列国。在我看来，这是开拓视野，形成豁达人生的最佳途径。我成家工作以后，体验异国文化的梦想就烟消云散了。
听了这番话后，丹尼尔若有所思。丹尼尔的朋友告诫他说，为了游历世界而把事业搁在一边，这是非常愚蠢的。但丹尼尔并不认同。毕业后，他在大学校园端盘子，骑单车送报纸，还替人刷墙。通过打工挣钱，他攒足了去巴黎的路费。
丹尼尔离开的前夜，我在床上辗转难眠。我想准备好明天要说的话，但脑袋里却一片空白。也许根本就无须赘言，我安慰自己。
即使一位父亲一辈子都不曾亲口告诉儿子自己对他的看法，那又如何？然而，当我面对着丹尼尔，我知道到这非常重要。我爱我的父亲，他也爱我。但我从未听过他说心里话，更没有这些感人的回忆。为此，我总心怀遗憾。现在，我手心冒汗，喉咙打结。为什么对儿子说几句心里话如此困难？我的嘴唇变得干涩，我想我顶多能够清晰地吐出几个字而已。
“丹尼尔，”我终于迸出了一句，“如果上帝让我选择谁是我的儿子，我始终会选你。”
这是我惟一能想到的话了。我不晓得丹尼尔是否理解了这句话，但他扑过来抱住了我。那一刻，世界消失了，只剩下我和丹尼尔站在海边的小屋里。
丹尼尔也在说着什么，但泪水已经模糊了我的双眼，我一个字也没听进去。只是当他的脸向我贴过来时，我感觉到了他下巴的胡子茬。然后，一切恢复原样。我继续工作，丹尼尔几个小时后带着女友离开了。
七个星期过去了，周末在海边散步时我会想起丹尼尔。横跨拍打着这个荒芜海岸的茫茫大海，几百英里之外的某个地方，丹尼尔也许正飞奔着穿越圣热蒙大道，或者在罗浮宫散发着霉味的走廊上徘徊，又或者此时正托着下巴坐在左岸咖啡馆里憩息。
我对丹尼尔说的那些话既晦涩又老套，空洞无文。然而，它却道出了一切。
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