English Original
I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tap-dancing lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearly recital. As an excited member of the beginners' chorus line, I was aware of my lowly status.
So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long-stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.
Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but was flustered by the extravagance.
Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed—or the new ice skates I wanted.
Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him—an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.
Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers, bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that."
As the years passed, other occasions—birthdays, recitals, awards, graduations—were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.
When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence were over. I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized his pride, and my triumph. They evoked only great pleasure.
Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety red roses for birthdays. Seasonal flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated the births of my children and the move to our first house.
As my fortunes grew, my father's waned, but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. Without embarrassment, I covered his coffin with the largest, reddest roses I could find.
Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.
Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband was playing golf, and my two daughters were away. My 13-year-old son, Matt, had run out earlier with a "see you later," never mentioning my birthday. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. "Forgot my key," he said, shrugging. "Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like flowers, Mum." He pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.
"Oh, Matt," I cried, hugging him hard. "I love flowers!"
中文翻译
父亲第一次送我花时，我九岁。那时我已经学了六个月的踢踏舞，学校正在举行年度演出。作为初学者合唱队里一个兴奋的成员，我深知自己地位卑微。
因此，当演出结束时，我的名字和领舞们一起被叫到，并且发现怀里抱满了长茎红玫瑰时，我惊讶不已。我至今仍能感受到自己站在那个舞台上的感觉，满脸通红，目光越过脚灯，看到父亲在大声鼓掌时露出的灿烂笑容。
那些玫瑰是伴随我人生所有里程碑的一系列大花束中的第一束。它们带来了一种尴尬感。我喜欢它们，但又因这种过度的慷慨而感到慌乱。
但我父亲不这么觉得。他做任何事都大手大脚。如果你让他去面包店买一个蛋糕，他会带回来三个。有一次，母亲告诉他我需要一件新的派对礼服，他带回家一打。
他的行为常常让我们没有钱去买其他更重要的东西。礼服事件之后，就没有钱买我真正需要的冬衣——或者我想要的溜冰鞋了。
有时我会生他的气，但不会太久。他总会买点东西来和我和好。这份礼物显然是他无法用言语表达的爱意，以至于我会张开双臂拥抱他、亲吻他——这个举动无疑助长了他的行为。
然后是我十六岁的生日。那不是一个快乐的场合。我很胖，也没有男朋友。我好心的父母为我举办了一个派对，这反而加深了我的痛苦。当我走进餐厅时，蛋糕旁边的桌子上放着一大束花，比以往任何一束都大。
我想躲起来。现在每个人都会认为是我父亲送的花，因为我没有男朋友来做这件事。甜蜜的十六岁，我却想哭。我可能真的会哭出来，但我最好的朋友菲莉丝低声说：“天哪，你真幸运，有这样一个父亲。”
岁月流逝，其他场合——生日、演出、获奖、毕业——都因父亲的花而被铭记。我的情绪继续在喜悦和尴尬之间摇摆。
然而，当我大学毕业时，我矛盾的日子结束了。我即将开始新的职业生涯，并且订婚了。父亲的花象征着他的骄傲和我的胜利。它们只唤起巨大的喜悦。
现在，感恩节有亮橙色的菊花，圣诞节有巨大的粉色一品红。复活节有白色百合花，生日有天鹅绒般的红玫瑰。混合花束中的应季鲜花庆祝了我孩子们的出生和我们搬进第一所房子。
随着我的境遇越来越好，父亲的却日渐衰落，但他送花的礼物一直持续到他七十岁生日前几个月因心脏病去世。我不再感到尴尬，用我能找到的最大、最红的玫瑰覆盖了他的棺木。
在他去世后的十几年里，我常常有一种冲动，想出去买一大束花来装满客厅，但我从未这样做过。我知道那感觉会不一样。
后来有一次生日，门铃响了。我感到忧郁，因为只有我一个人。我丈夫在打高尔夫球，两个女儿也不在家。我十三岁的儿子马特早些时候说了句“回头见”就跑出去了，根本没提我的生日。所以，看到他那高大的身影出现在门口时，我很惊讶。“忘带钥匙了，”他耸耸肩说。“也忘了你的生日。嗯，我希望你喜欢花，妈妈。”他从背后拿出一束雏菊。
“哦，马特，”我紧紧抱住他，喊道。“我爱花！”