After mom died, I began visiting dad every morning before I went to work. He was weak and moved slowly, but he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the kitchen table for me, along with a note, reading, "Drink your juice." This, I knew, was as far as dad had ever been able to do in expressing his love.
In fact, I remember, as a kid I had questioned mom "Why doesn't dad love me?" Mom replied, "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." 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 a small scrap metal (废旧金属) business. He fed scrap steel into a machine. The machine looked like a giant pair of scissors, with blades (刀刃) thicker than my father's body. If he didn't feed those terrifying blades carefully, he would be seriously injured. "Why don't you hire someone to do that for you?" mom asked dad one night. "Why don't you hire a cook?" dad asked, giving mom one of his rare smiles.
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.