It was a transitional time in Daniel's life, a passage, a step from college into the adult world. I wanted to leave him with words that would have some meaning, some significance beyond the moment.
But nothing came from my lips. No sound broke the stillness of my beachside home on Long Island. Outside, I could hear the shrill cries of sea gulls as they circled the ever-changing surf. Inside, I stood frozen and quiet, looking into the searching eyes of my son.
What made it more difficult was that I knew this 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 tension in his hand holding mine as the bus turned the corner. I saw color flush his cheeks as the bus pulled up. His questioning eyes looked up at mine.
What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it? Will I be okay? And then he walked up the steps of the bus and disappeared inside. And the bus drove away. And I had said nothing.
A decade or so later, a similar scene played itself out. With his mother, I drove him to the College of William and Mary in Virginia. His first night, he went out with his new schoolmates. When he met us the next morning, he was sick. He was coming down with mononucleosis, but we could not know that then. We thought he had a hangover.
In his room, Dan lay stretched out on his bed as I started to leave for the trip home. I tried to think of something to say to give him some courage and confidence as he started this new phase of life.
Again, words failed me. I mumbled something like, "Hope you feel better, Dan." And I left.
Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those lost opportunities. How many times have we all let such moments pass?
A parent dies, and, instead of giving a eulogy ourselves, we let a clergyman speak. A child asks if Santa Claus is real, or where babies come from, and, embarrassed, we slough it off. When a daughter graduates or a son is married, we watch them go through the motions of the ceremony. But we don't seek out our children and find a quiet moment to tell them what they have meant to us. Or what they might expect to face in the years ahead.
How fast the years had passed. Daniel was born in New Orleans, slow to walk and talk, and small of stature. He was the tiniest in his class, but he developed a warm, outgoing nature and was popular with his peers. He was coordinated and agile, and he became adept in sports.
Baseball gave him his earliest challenge. He was an outstanding pitcher in Little League, expecting to make it big in high school. It didn't happen that way. He failed to move up from the junior varsity team. But he stuck it out. Eventually, as a senior, he moved up to the varsity. He won half the team's games. At graduation, the coach named Daniel the team's most valuable player.
His finest hour, though, came at a school science fair. He entered an exhibit showing how the circulatory system works. He sketched it on cardboard. It was primitive and crude, especially compared to the fancy, computerized, blinking-light models entered by other students. My wife, Sara, felt embarrassed for him.
It turned out that the other kids had not done their own work--their parents had made their exhibits. As the judges went on their rounds, they found that these other kids couldn't answer their questions. Daniel answered every one. When the judges awarded the Albert Einstein Plaque for the best exhibit, they gave it to him.
By the time Daniel left for college he stood six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. He was muscular and in superb condition. But he never pitched another inning. He found that he could not combine athletics with academics. He gave up baseball for English literature. I was sorry that he would not develop his athletic talent, but proud that he had made such a mature decision. He graduated with a "B" average.
One day, I told Daniel that the great failing in my life had been that I didn't take a year or two off to travel when I finished college.
This is the best way, to my way of thinking, to broaden oneself and develop a larger perspective on life. Once I had married and begun working, I found that the dream of living in another culture had vanished.
Daniel thought about this. His Yuppie friends said that he would be insane to put his career on hold. But he decided it wasn't so crazy. After graduation, he worked as a waiter, a bike messenger, and a house painter. With the money he earned, he had enough to go to Paris.
The night before he was to leave, I tossed in bed. I was trying to figure out something to say. Nothing came to mind. Maybe, I thought, it wasn't 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? But as I stood before Daniel, I knew that it does matter. My father and I loved each other. Yet, I always regretted never hearing him put his feelings into words and never having the memory of that moment.
Now, I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten. Why is it so hard to tell a son something from the heart? My mouth turned dry. 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. I wasn't sure he understood what I meant. Then he came toward me and threw his arms around me. For a moment, the world and all its people vanished, and there was just Daniel and me.
He was saying something, but my eyes misted over, and I couldn't understand what he was saying. All I was aware of was the stubble on his chin as his face pressed against mine. And then, the moment ended, and Daniel left for France.
I think about him when I walk along the beach on weekends. Thousands of miles away, somewhere out past the ocean waves breaking on the deserted shore, he might be scurrying across Boulevard Saint Germain, strolling through a musty hallway of the Louvre, bending an elbow in a Left Bank café.
What I said to Daniel was clumsy and trite. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything.
在我家门口，我在23岁的儿子丹尼尔，他的背包就放在身旁的脸仔细地看了看。我们说再见了。再过几个小时，他将飞往法国。他将在那里停留了至少一年的学习在不同的国家另一种语言，体验生活。
这是丹尼尔的生活，一个通道，从大学一踏进成人世界的过渡时间。我想离开他，将有一定的意义，一定意义超越了一会儿话。
但没有来自我的嘴唇。无声音打断了我的海滨的家在长岛的寂静。外面，当他们盘旋千变万化的冲浪我能听到海鸥的哭声凄厉。在里面，我站在冷冻和安静，注视着儿子的眼睛搜索。
是什么让更困难的是，我知道这是不是第一次我让这样的时刻传球。丹尼尔五岁的时候，我把他送到了学校，公交车站上了幼儿园的第一天。我感到紧张手里拿着我的作为总线转危为安。我看到的颜色刷新他的脸颊作为总线上拉。他质疑的目光在我的抬头。
它是什么会像爸爸？我可以做吗？我会好吗？然后他走到公交车的台阶上，消失中。而公交车开走了。而我什么也没有说。
大约十年后，类似的一幕再次上演尽。与他的母亲，我开车把他送到威廉和玛丽在弗吉尼亚大学。他的第一个晚上，他出去与他的新同学。当他第二天早上迎接我们，他生病了。他出现白血球增多，但我们无法知道呢。我们以为他只是喝多了。
在他的房间里，丹展现在他的床上，我开始离开了回家的路。我试图想的东西说给他一定的勇气和信心，他开始人生的新阶段。
同样，失败的话我。我咕哝了一句，“希望你感觉更好，丹。”我离开。
现在，我站在他面前，我想到了那些失去的机会。多少次，我们让这样的时刻通过？
父母死亡，而且，而不是给悼词自己，我们让牧师讲话。一个孩子询问圣诞老人是真实的，或在婴儿从哪里来，有些不好意思，我们蜕其关闭。当女儿毕业或儿子结婚，我们看他们经过热闹的场面。但是，我们不寻求我们的孩子，找一个安静的时间来告诉他们什么，他们都意味着给我们。或者，他们可能希望面对未来的岁月里。
如何快速的岁月已经过去了。丹尼尔出生于新奥尔良，慢慢地走路和说话，身材矮小的。他是班里最小的，但他开发了一个温暖，外向的性格和当时流行与他的同龄人。他协调，敏捷，而他也成为了运动高手。
棒球给了他最早的挑战。他在小联盟的一个出色的投手，希望使其在高中大。它没有发生过这种方式。他没有从后备队拉升。但他坚持了。最后，作为一个前辈，他上升到了校队。他赢了一半的球队的比赛。在毕业时，教练名叫丹尼尔的球队的最有价值球员。
他最辉煌的时刻，却是在一所学校的科学公平的。他走进展示循环系统参加了这次展览。他勾勒出它在纸板上。特别是相对于花哨的，其他学生进入电脑，闪烁光模式这是相形见绌。我的妻子莎拉，替儿子感到脸红。
原来，其他孩子没有做自己的本职工作 - 他们的父母做了他们的展品。作为评委对他们的轮去，他们发现这些孩子不能回答他们的问题。丹尼尔回答每一个。当评委授予爱因斯坦牌匾展品，它们交给了他。
丹尼尔刚进大学的时候，他站在身高六英尺，体重170磅。他是肌肉和高超的条件。但他从未投另一局。他发现，他无法与学者结合竞技。他放弃了棒球英国文学。我很抱歉，他不会培养自己的运动天赋，但自豪的是，他做了这样一个慎重的决定。他毕业于一个“B”的平均水平。
有一天，我告诉丹尼尔我一生中的失误就是我没拿一两年的时间周游列国时，我大学毕业。
这是的方式，我的思维方式，拓宽自己的发展对生活更大的视角。有一次，我已经结婚了，开始工作时，我发现，生活在另一种文化的梦想已经消失了。
丹尼尔想到这个问题。他的雅痞的朋友说，他会疯狂的把他的职业生涯搁置。但他决定还是不那么疯狂。毕业后，他当过服务生，是个邮递员，和刷墙。他用赚来的钱，他攒足了去巴黎。
之前，他是要离开的晚上，我在床上辗转难眠。我试图找出话要说。没有浮现在脑海。也许，我认为，没有必要说什么。
是什么在一生的过程中的问题，如果一个父亲从来不告诉他真正想到他一个儿子？但是，当我面对着丹尼尔，我知道这很重要。我父亲和我彼此相爱。但是，我总是后悔从来没有听过他说心里话，更永远不必那一刻的记忆。
现在，我能感觉到我的手心出汗，我的喉咙发紧。为什么这么难分辨的心脏儿子的东西吗？我的嘴唇变得干燥。我知道我将能够清晰地吐出几个字而已。
“丹尼尔，”我说，“如果我能有回升，我会选你。”
这就是我能说。我不知道他明白了我的意思。然后，他朝我走过来，把我扔在他的怀里。一时间，世界和所有的人消失了，只是有丹尼尔和我。
他在说什么，但我的眼睛模糊了过来，我听不懂他在说什么。我所知道的是他下巴的胡子茬的脸上压在我的。然后，一瞬间结束了，丹尼尔离开法国。
我想他的时候我周末在海边散步。千里之外的某个地方过去海浪打破这个荒芜海岸，他可能是整个大道圣日尔曼乱窜，经过卢浮宫的霉味走廊漫步，弯曲的左岸咖啡馆的手肘。
我对丹尼尔说的笨拙和陈腐。这没什么。然而，这就是一切。
