本帖最后由 ヮ成熟、羙° 于 2014-9-18 22:42 编辑
父亲 荷叶/译 如果我对父亲有记忆，那最初的记忆就是他的力量。那是一天黄昏，在我家附近的一所正在承建的房子里，没有铺完的地板上裸露着大窟窿，很吓人。那些张着大嘴的洞不会带来什么好结果。那时父亲三十三岁，那双强有力的大手紧紧扣住我四岁的小胳膊，轻而易举地把我放在他肩膀上，使我得以鸟瞰一切。 父子关系会随着时间而发生变化。它可能会随着双方逐渐成熟而越来越好，也可能会由于令人不快的依赖与独立的斗争而不断恶化。如今许多孩子生活在单亲家庭，这种关系可能根本就不存在。 但对于一个二战后的小男孩，父亲似乎是一尊神，有奇异的力量，知常人所不知，做常人所不能做。比如，能够神奇地把一条自行车链子复原，能自制一个仓鼠笼子，能指导我拼一个F形积木，在没有电视的年代里，我的字母表就是那样学会的。 当然，还有规矩要学。首先是握手。不是那种冷冷地沾沾小指，而是有力的紧握，同时要同样强烈地注视着对方的眼睛。“别人对你的最初了解就是通过握手。”他总说。每晚他下班回家，我们都要练习握手。一个戴着破旧的印第安克里夫兰帽的蹒跚学步的小男孩，一本正经地跑到巨人似的父亲面前，一遍又一遍地和他握手，直至足够坚实有力为止。 时光流逝，我们还有许多其它的规矩要学。“万事尽力！”“现在就做！”“永不撒谎！”最重要的是，“你会做你必须做的一切。”十几岁时，父亲不再教我别的了，这让我又害怕又兴奋。他教给我观点和方法，而不是直接告诉我未来的生活是什么样子，但他让我懂得了生活不只有明天和后来，日子长着呢，这些我从没想过。 有一天，这一切发生了变化。我不再试图取悦父亲，而要想给他留下深刻印象。我从不邀请他参加我的足球比赛。他工作压力很大，看球赛就意味着周五他要开大半夜的车。但所有大型比赛，当我抬头扫视边线时，总会看到那顶熟悉的软呢帽。老天作证，对方球队队长每一次坚定的握手和凝视，他都记得。 后来，父亲说的与课本发生了冲突。父亲不可能错，但书上明明这样写着。慢慢地，冲突越来越多，加上我的个人经历，我逐渐形成了自己的价值观。我敢说，此时我俩已经各走各的阳关道了。 我也开始看到父亲的盲点，偏见和弱点。但我从不在他面前提起这些。父亲也不向我提起，不管怎么说，他似乎需要保护。我不再征求他的意见。他的经历好像与我要做出的决定没什么联系了。 有一段时间，父亲主动提供建议。但后来，特别是最近几年，父亲不再谈论政治和家庭事务了，他开始说些无聊的跑腿的事，并且总是谈论疾病。 躺在病床上，他指点给我看他那变形的身体上哪儿疼，哪儿有疤痕，还有那所有的药瓶。他向我吐露：“有时，我真想躺下睡去，不再醒来。” 经过深思熟虑，你会做自己必须做的事。去年冬天的一个晚上，我坐在父亲床边，一瞬间想到了三十五年前的那所房子，还有那些吓人的张着血盆大口的黑洞。我告诉父亲我有多爱他，向他诉说着别人为他付出的一切。但是，他总是吃得很少，躺在自己房间里，不听医生的话。多少爱都无法使另一个人珍惜生命。这是一个双向选择。父亲不再尽力了，决定权在他手里。 他说他知道要我说出这些话多不容易，并说他为我感到无比自豪。“你是我最好的老师，”我说：“你会做你必须做的一切。”他微笑了一下，然后，我们坚定地握手，这是最后一次。 几天以后，凌晨四点，妈妈听见父亲拖着脚步，在他的房间里摸黑走动。“我有几件事要做。”父亲说。他付了一叠帐单，给妈妈写了张长长的单子，上面写好出现突发情况时的法律和金融程序。他还给我写了张便条。 然后，他回到床上，躺好。他睡去了，睡得很安祥，再也没有醒来。 附：原文 The first memory I have of him -- of anything, really -- is his strength.It was in the late afternoon in a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large, terrifying holes whose yawning darkness I knewled to nowhere good. His powerful hands, then age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung me up to his shoulders to command all I surveyed. The relationship between a son and his father changes over time. It may grow and flourish in mutual maturity. It may sour in resented dependence or independence. With many children living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist. But to a little boy right after World War II ,a father seemed a god with strange strengths and uncanny powers enabling him to do and know things that no mortal could do or know. Amazing things, like putting a bicycle chain back on, just like that. Or building a hamster cage. Or guiding a jigsaw so it forms the letter F; I learned the alphabet that way in those pre-television days. There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishy little finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into the other's eyes. "The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake," he would say. And we'd practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler in the battered Cleveland Indian's cap running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough. As time passed, there were other rules to learn. "Always do your best." "Do it now." "Never lie!" And most importantly,“You can do whatever you have to do." By my teens, he wasn't telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the same time. He provided perspective, not telling me what was around the great corner of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn't thought of. One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn't trying to please him so much as I was trying to impress him. I never asked him to come to my football games. He had a high-pressure career, and it meant driving through most of Friday night. But for all the big games, when I looked over at the sideline, there was that familiar fedora. And by God, did the opposing team captain ever get a firm handshake and a gaze he would remember. Then, a school fact contradicted something he said. Impossible that he could be wrong, but there it was in the book. These accumulated over time,along with personal experiences, to buttress my own developing sense of values.And I could tell we had each taken our own, perfectly normal paths. I began to see, too, his blind spots, his prejudices and his weaknesses. I never threw these up at him. He hadn't to me, and, anyway, he seemed to need protection. I stopped asking his advice; the experiences he drew from no longer seemed relevant to the decisions I had to make. He volunteered advice for a while. But then, in more recent years,politics and issues gave way to talk of empty errands and, always, to ailments. From his bed, he showed me the many sores and scars on his misshapen body and all the bottles for medicine. "Sometimes," he confided, "I would just like to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up." After much thought and practice ("You can do whatever you have todo."), one night last winter, I sat down by his bed and remembered for an instant those terrifying dark holes in another house 35 years before. I told my father how much I loved him. I described all the things people were doing for him. But, I said, he kept eating poorly, hiding in his room and violating the doctor's orders. No amount of love could make someone else care about life, I said; it was a two-way street. He wasn't doing his best. The decision was his. He said he knew how hard my words had been to say and how proud he was of me. "I had the best teacher," I said. "You can do whatever you have to do." He smiled a little. And we shook hands, firmly, for the last time. Several days later, at about 4 A.M., my mother heard Dad shuffling about their dark room."I have some things I have to do," he said. He paid a bundle of bills. He composed for my mother a long list of legal and financial what-to-do's "in case of emergency." And he wrote me a note. Then he walked back to his bed and laid himself down. He went to sleep,naturally. And he did not wake up. | 
发表于 2014-9-18 20:12:01
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