In the doorway, I looked closely at the face of my 23-year old son, Daniel. We were saying goodbye. In a few hours he would be flying to France. It was a transitional(过渡的) time in Daniel's life, a passage from college into the adult world. I wanted to leave him some words that would have some meaning, some importance beyond the moment. But nothing came from my lips. No sound broke the silence of my beachside home. I stood frozen and quiet, looking into the searching eyes of my son, which I knew was not the first time I had let such a moment pass.
When Daniel was five, I took him to the school bus stop on his first day of kindergarten. I felt the fear in hand holding mine as the bus turned the corner. I saw his hot cheeks as the bus pulled up. He looked at me - as he did now.“ What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it? Will I be OK?" Then he walked up the bus steps and disappeared inside. The bus drove away, and I said nothing.
Ten years later, a similar scene played itself out. I drove him to college in Virginia. As I started to make the trip home, I tried to think of something to say to give him courage and confidence as he started this new period of life. I left, only mumbling, “Hope you feel better, Dan."
I once told Daniel about my great regret that I didn't take a year off to travel. Daniel thought about this. After graduation, he worked as a waiter, a bike messenger and a painter. Now he had enough money for Paris. The night before he left, I tossed and turned in bed. I was trying to figure out something to say. Nothing came. Maybe it wasn't necessary to say anything.
How many times have we let such moments pass? What does it matter over the course of lifetime if a father never tells a son what he really thinks of him?
