In the doorway of my home, I looked closely at my 23-year-old son, Daniel. In a few hours he would he flying to France to1a different life. It was a transitional(过渡的)period in Daniel s life. I wanted to2him some words of significance. But nothing came from my lips, and this was not the3time I had let such moments slip away.
When Daniel was five, I took him to the bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. He asked, What is it going to he like, Dad? Can I do it? Then he walked4the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. The bas drove away and I said nothing. A decade later, a similar5was played out. I drove him to college. As I started to leave, I tried to think of something to say to give him6and confidence as he started this new stage of life. Again, words7me.
Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those8opportunities. How many times have I let such moments9? I don't find a quiet moment to tell him what he has10to me or what he might11to face in the years that followed. Maybe I thought it was not necessary to say anything.
What does it matter in the course of a lifetime if a father never tells a son what he really thinks of him?12as I stood before Daniel, I knew that it did matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet I always13never hearing him put his14into words. Now I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten. Why is it so15to tell a son something from the heart?
My mouth turned dry, and I knew I would he able to get out only a few words clearly. "Daniel," I said, "if I could have picked one, I would have picked you." That's all I could say. He hugged me. For a moment, the world16, and there, were just Daniel and me. He was saying something, but tears misted my eyes, and I couldn't make out what he was saying. All I was17of was the stubble(胡子茬)on his chin as his face pressed18mine. What I had said to Daniel was19.It was nothing. And yet, it was20.
