In the doorway of my home, I looked closely at my 23-year-old son, Daniel. In a few hours he would be flying to France to1a different life. It was a transitional time in Daniel's life. I wanted to2 him some words of significance. But nothing came from my lips, and this was not the3time 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 4the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. The bus drove away and I said nothing. A decade later, a similar 5played itself out. I drove him to college. As I started to leave, I tried to think of something to say to give him6 and confidence as he started this new stage of life. Again, words7 me.
Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those8 opportunities. How many times have I let such moments9? I don't find a quiet moment to tell him what they have 10to me or what he might11 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？12as I stood before Daniel, I knew that it did matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet, I always13 never 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 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 world16, and there were just Daniel and me. He was saying something, but tears filled my eyes, and I couldn't understand what he was saying. All I was17 of was the stubble(短须) on his chin as his face pressed18mine. What I had said to Daniel was19. It was nothing. However, it was20.
