选自英语世界On the Shoulders of a Hero

On the Shoulders of a Hero

坐在勇士的肩膀上

父亲开始接受重症病人的加护治疗，他的心脏岌岌可危。6个长大成人的儿女得知这个消息，马不停蹄地赶到佛罗里达的维尼斯医院。父亲正躺在病床上，身边是各种各样的急救医疗仪器。夜已经很深了，我们和母亲一起围在他的床前，紧握住他的手，贴近他的脸和他说话。当时仿佛有某种强大的力量要把他带走，而他正竭力挣扎抗拒着。

在我们紧握的手中，他咽下了最后一口气。我们转过身去看仪表上显示的数字，不禁失声痛哭起来。父亲就这样走了，享年75岁。

父亲的过世，让我突然意识到人生无常，自己的永生只不过是幻想；过去想到父亲在我前面走着，我就感到宽慰和踏实，现在却再也不可能了。我顿时变得孤独和脆弱，也比以前多了一份对我的生命的责任感。

我回想起一个早晨，那时我5岁。一场暴风雪过后，父亲把我驮在他的肩膀上，离家去1英里开外的城市。当他勇敢地迈过一个又一个雪堆时，我的双手抱住他的头以坐稳些，手套却无意中遮住了他的眼睛。“我看不见了”，父亲说道，但他仍然继续前行——。就这样，一位被蒙上眼睛的勇士背着我在杳无人迹的雪地里，在雪后陌生而神秘的景致里艰难跋涉。父亲当时刚从二战战场回了不久，这次旅行就成了我和他相处的第一次体验，是我最真的、永恒的回忆。

当他入土下葬的时候，其他的回忆如潮水般涌上心头。

从我还是十几岁的翩翩少年时起，我就渴望父亲能给我很多鼓励，但他很少这样做。高中快毕业了，我告诉他我想成为一名演员。他马上就长篇大论，像发表演说一样，说这种职业有多么不稳定：“结果你可能会拿着一锡制杯子的食物，蜷缩在墙角。”

一次，在我们为了我决定去纽约学习演艺课程的事争吵之后。他怒气冲冲地上楼直奔我的房间。我在门口遇见了他。我们面对面站着，针锋相对，我气得全身发抖，扬起拳头向他怒目而视，并说事情就这样决定了，除非他想和我干上一架。他那因狂怒而涨得通红的脸迅速失去了血色，他转过身，垂着肩膀，走开了。这一事件很快就成了变化的转折点，他再也不干涉和反对我了。

但他仍一如既往地提醒我小心行事。在我真正成为一名专业演员后，他前来观看了我在百老汇的演出，然后评价说：“显而易见，你应该选择另一项职业作为必要的依靠。”

于是我找到了一份报社的工作，到我的第一本书出版后才辞职。“现在，”他说，“有了这个资本，再去应聘当个公司的职员是再好不过了。”

一年年过去了，对于我无言地要求一个父亲盲目的信任，父亲的怀疑成了预料中的事。但是我逐渐意识到父亲那些提醒正是他与我相处的一种方式。早些年我曾以为他对我漠不关心，但我现在慢慢明白，他已给了我他所能提供的一切。

我还意识到他实际上一直在激励着我——不是口头上，而是通过他的行动。他是经历了一场残酷恐怖的战争后回到家的，要在一栋有庭院的房子里抚养6个小孩。他和同时代的许多人一样，从战场上归来，要为那些需要他照料的人创造安稳的生活，要给他们一个未来。

他还常常带我们出去度假，把我们一个个送去了大学。他为我们打好了基础，让我们感觉自己足够强大，可以各奔前程。在我们天各一方以后，他经常给我们写信，安排一家人的团聚。

就在他病逝前两个星期，父亲给母亲开了个生日庆祝会。我们从天南地北赶到佛罗里达，这期间还和父亲一起去钓了趟鱼。父亲的脸色看上去不是很好。

当时我们根本没想到父亲的病已到了危险期。我回头想一想，很明显父亲有意掩饰了这一切，他不愿意破坏这欢乐的气氛。

离开佛罗里达的那天早晨，父亲把我拉到一边，指给我看一个约3英尺长2英尺高的神秘盒子。我打开一看，大吃一惊，里面装有几百张纸条，几乎涉及我有生以来做过的全部事情。“我想你可能会喜欢这些。”父亲说道。

我们紧紧拥抱，却不曾想到这竟会是最后的诀别，但是父亲肯定已经意识到自己将不久于人世了。

托起这沉甸甸的盒子，我突然明白了，无论父亲的话听上去有多么消极，什么都不能抹去那份实实在在的行动——自从我离家以后，他就一张一张地将纸条往盒子里装。事实证明，每时每刻，他都一直在我的身边——分享我的人生。

然后就得知父亲病危，接下来就是几个月的思念与缅怀。现在父亲过世已整整一年半了我无法用语言来表达怀念之情。可笑的是，最让我难忘的是，许多年前，当我还是一个小孩子的时候，完全信任父亲蒙着眼睛带着我穿行人生，保护我。我感觉很安全，因为我知道，他就在我身边。

一天，我带着自己的儿子本杰明一起散步，他也5岁了。当我把他高高地驮在我的肩膀上时，他双手抱住我的头，遮住了我的眼睛。“我看不见了，”我说道，但他的小手还是没有松开。眼前突然漆黑一片，但我仍然继续向前走着、摸索着、感受着肩膀上的重量，正如当年我5岁时父亲所做的那样。突然间，我的热泪夺眶而出，这是父亲去世以来从未有过的事，我觉得自己成了一名新的蒙眼勇士，在陌生而神秘的身为人父的世界中，怀着希望和担忧，开始了又一轮的旅行。

My father went into intensive care, his heart not working right.. As word went out, each of his six grown children sped toward Venice Hospital in Florida, where he lay attached to various machines. Late that night, we stood around him with our mother, holding his hands and speaking close to his face as he strained against some powerful force that kept on pulling him away.

A breath left his body under our hands and we turned to watch the numbers on the machines. Then we made an involuntary, collective groan, and he was gone. He was 75 years old. .

With his passing, I was abruptly stripped of any illusions about my own immortality; no longer might I comfort myself with the thought that he was in line ahead of me .I was newly alone and vulnerable and, more than ever, responsible for my life.

Then I remembered one morning when I was five years old. After a snowstorm, Dad carried me on his shoulders for the mile from our apartment into town.. As he marched bravely thought the snowdrifts, I put my hands around his head to hold on, inadvertently covering his eyes with my mittens. “I can’t see,” my father said, but he walked on nevertheless, a blind hero making his way with me on his back through a strange, magi cal landscape of untrodden snow. He had returned recently from World War Ⅱ, and this ride would become my first experience with him to take hold as a genuine, lasting memory.

As he was buried, other memories flooded in.

From my teen-age years onward, I had expected a great deal of encouragement from my dad, but it seldom came. I told him, after senior year of high school, that I wanted to become an actor. He launched into a speech about the instability of such a career:“The odds are you’d wind up holding a tin cup on the corner.”

One time , after we had argued over my decision to take acting lessons in New York, he stormed up to my room. I met him at the doorway. We stood toe-to-toe, and I held up my first and glared at him , trembling, and said the issue was settled unless he wanted to fight. The red fury drained from his face, and he turned, shoulders slumped, to walk away. A rite of passage had taken place in a second, leaving me on my own without his resistance.

But his general air of caution continued. After I did become a professional actor, he came to see me in a Broadway show and later remarked：“Of course, it would be wise to have something else to fall back on .”

I fell back , so to speak , on newspaper work , only to quit when my first book was published .“Now ,”he said , “is the perfect time , with this credential , for you to apply to a corporation .” When I told him I intended to remain self-employed for as long as possible , he fell silent .

As the years went by , his expressions of doubt in response to my unspoken pleas for a father’s blind faith became predictable . And I came to realize that my father’s warnings were his way of relating to me . In earlier years I had thought he didn’t care , but I came to understand that he was offering what he could .

I also realized that he had even inspired me—not by words , but by what he had done . He had come home from a terrifying war to raise six kids in a house with a yard. . He had returned , with so many other men of his generation , to create stability and safety for those in his care and to give them a future .  

He spent two decades in advertising and longer in real estate , meanwhile always taking us on vacations and sending us through college . By providing a foundation , he enabled his children to feel strong enough to go their individual ways . As we scattered , he wrote frequent letters and planned our reunions .

Just two weeks before he died , my father held a birthday celebration for Mom . We flew from our separate homes to Florida and , during our stay , joined him on a fishing trip . Dad did not look well. .

We had no idea then how perilous his condition had become . As I look back , it’s clear that he had deliberately kept all of that hidden from us to avoid spoiling our fun .

The morning we were to leave Florida , he pulled me aside and pointed to a mysterious box about three feet long and two feet deep . Inside ,to my astonishment , were hundreds of clippings relating to almost everything I had done in my life . “I figured you might like to have this ,”Dad said .

We hugged each other , not knowing it would he for the last time , but my father must have sensed that he would not be around much longer .

Lifting the heavy box , I suddenly understood that no matter how negative his words had seemed ,nothing could erase his concrete act of filling the box , piece by piece , it turned out , he had been there—sharing my life .

Then came word that he was dying , and then came the months of thinking about him . Now a full year and a half have gone by without him , and I miss him beyond words . What I miss most , ironically , is that time long ago when I was a boy trusting his father to carry him . The security lay in simply knowing he was there .