Yours,

Li Hua

4 . When I was young, I thought that boys and grown men shouldn’t cry. The tears were signs of being weak. A man isn’t supposed to be like that. This was even strengthened in my young mind with the popular song, Boys Don’t cry, in the early 1980s.

But just last June, I discovered that courage wasn’t all about trying to keep all the pain inside. Courage wasn’t all about trying to hide the tears. It was the opposite — the tears reinforced (加强) the heart’s courage. And I saw this in my father.

My 18-year-old sister eloped and with it, I saw how vulnerable (脆弱的) my father’s heart was. We were used to seeing him as a strong figure and an iron-willed father. For three days after my sister eloped, he wouldn’t talk. He would just sit quietly outside our house in the dark. On the fourth night, I sat beside him and asked him to tell me what he felt about everything.

It has been years since I have laid my hand on my father’s shoulder as we have drifted farther while I am growing up. That night, I sensed my father trying to control his pain and I wanted him to be able to let it out. We all cried over what had happened except him.

The simple touch and my words “Dad, it’s not your fault”broke my father’s dam. In the darkness, he began to cry. I felt his shoulders shaking as he whispered, “Where did I go wrong? All I ever wanted was for my children to grow up right. Why couldn’t your sister wait? How can she go away with such a boy?”

I understood then why he preferred to be in the dark. By being there, he hoped to spare his family’s feelings. His tears, though we didn’t see them before that night, were there all the same.

I saw his courage that night when my father cried with my hand on his shoulder, and understood his pain.

5 . In the doorway of my home, I looked closely at my 23­-year­-oldson, Daniel. In a few hours he would be flying to France to _________ a different life. It was a transitional (过渡的) time in Daniel’s life. I wanted to _________ him some words of significance. But nothing came from my lips, and this was not the _________ time I had let such moments pass.

When Daniel was five, I took him to the bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. He asked, “What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it?” Then he walked _________ the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. The bus drove away and I said nothing. A decade later, a similar _________ played itself out. I drove him to college. As I started to leave, I tried to think of something to say to give him _________ and confidence as he started this new stage of life. Again, words _________ me.

Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those _________ opportunities. How many times have I let such moments _________? I don’t find a quiet moment to tell him what he has __________ to me. Or what he might __________ 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 lifetime if a father never tells a son what he really thinks of him? __________ as I stood before Daniel, I knew that it did matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet I always __________ never hearing him put his __________ into words. Now I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten. Why is it so __________ 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. He hugged me. For a moment, the world __________, and there were just Daniel and me. He was saying something, but tears misted my eyes, and I couldn’t understand what he was saying. All I was __________ of was the stubble (短须) on his chin as his face pressed __________mine. What I had said to Daniel was __________. It was nothing. And yet, it was __________.

Yours sincerely,

Li Hua