English Original
On Christmas Day, all the joys of a close family relationship radiated throughout our parents' home. The smells of roasted turkey, Southern-baked ham and homemade bread hung in the air. Tables and chairs were set up everywhere to accommodate toddlers, teenagers, parents and grandparents. Every room was lavishly decorated. No family member had ever missed Christmas Day with our mother and father.
Only this year, things were different. Our father had passed away November 26, and this was our first Christmas without him. Mother was doing her best to be the gracious hostess, but I could tell this was especially hard for her. I felt a catch in my throat, and again I wondered if I should give her my planned Christmas gift, or if it had become inappropriate in my father's absence.
A few months earlier I had been putting the finishing touches on portraits I had painted of each of my parents. I'd planned to give them as Christmas gifts. This would be a surprise for everyone, as I had not studied art or tried serious painting. There had been an undeniable urge within that pushed me relentlessly to do this. The portraits did look like them, but I was still unsure of my painting techniques.
While painting one day, I was surprised by a doorbell ring. Quickly putting all my painting materials out of sight, I opened the door. To my astonishment, my father ambled in alone, never before having visited me without my mother. Grinning, he said, "I've missed our early morning talks. You know, the ones we had before you decided to leave me for another man!" I hadn't been married long. Also, I was the only girl and the baby of the family.
Immediately I wanted to show him the paintings, but I was reluctant to ruin his Christmas surprise. Yet something urged me to share this moment with him. After swearing him to secrecy, I insisted he keep his eyes closed until I had the portraits set on easels. "Okay, Daddy. Now you can look!"
He appeared dazed but said nothing. Getting up, he walked closer to inspect them. Then he withdrew to eye them at a distance. I tried to control my stomach flip-flops. Finally, with a tear escaping down one cheek, he mumbled, "I don't believe it. The eyes are so real that they follow you everywhere—and look how beautiful your mother is. Will you let me have them framed?"
Thrilled with his response, I happily volunteered to drop them off the next day at the frame shop. Several weeks passed. Then one night in November the phone rang, and a cold chill numbed my body. I picked up the receiver to hear my husband, a doctor, say, "I'm in the emergency room. Your father has had a stroke. It's bad, but he is still alive."
Daddy lingered in a coma for several days. I went to see him in the hospital the day before he died. I slipped my hand in his and asked, "Do you know who I am, Daddy?"
He surprised everyone when he whispered, "You're my darling daughter." He died the next day, and it seemed all joy was drained from the lives of my mother and me.
I finally remembered to call about the portrait framing and thanked God my father had gotten a chance to see the pictures before he died. I was surprised when the shopkeeper told me my father had visited the shop, paid for the framing and had them gift-wrapped. In all our grief, I had no longer planned to give the portraits to my mother.
Even though we had lost the patriarch of our family, everyone was assembled on Christmas Day—making an effort to be cheerful. As I looked into my mother's sad eyes and unsmiling face, I decided to give her Daddy's and my gift. As she stripped the paper from the box, I saw her heart wasn't in it. There was a small card inside attached to the pictures.
After looking at the portraits and reading the card, her entire demeanor changed. She bounced out of her chair, handed the card to me and commissioned my brothers to hang the paintings facing each other over the fireplace. She stepped back and looked for a long while. With sparkling, tear-filled eyes and a wide smile, she quickly turned and said, "I knew Daddy would be with us on Christmas Day!"
I glanced at the gift card scrawled in my father's handwriting. "Mother—Our daughter reminded me why I am so blessed. I'll be looking at you always—Daddy."
中文翻译
圣诞节那天，亲密家庭关系的所有欢乐都洋溢在父母的家中。烤火鸡、南方烤火腿和自制面包的香气弥漫在空气中。桌椅四处摆放，以容纳蹒跚学步的孩子、青少年、父母和祖父母。每个房间都装饰得奢华。从来没有一个家庭成员错过与父母共度的圣诞节。
只是今年，情况不同了。我们的父亲于11月26日去世，这是我们第一个没有他的圣诞节。母亲尽力扮演着优雅的女主人，但我能看出这对她来说尤其艰难。我感到喉咙哽咽，再次犹豫是否应该把我计划好的圣诞礼物送给她，或者在我父亲缺席的情况下，这份礼物是否已变得不合时宜。
几个月前，我一直在为我为父母画的肖像做最后的润色。我原计划把它们作为圣诞礼物。这对每个人来说都是一个惊喜，因为我从未学过艺术或尝试过严肃的绘画。内心有一种不可否认的冲动，不懈地推动我这样做。肖像确实看起来像他们，但我对自己的绘画技巧仍不确定。
一天，我正在画画时，门铃声让我吃了一惊。我迅速把所有绘画材料藏起来，打开了门。令我惊讶的是，父亲独自缓步走了进来，他以前从未在没有母亲陪同的情况下来看我。他咧嘴笑着说：“我想念我们清晨的谈话了。你知道的，就是你决定离开我嫁给另一个男人之前的那些谈话！”我结婚不久。而且，我是家里唯一的女孩，也是最小的孩子。
我立刻想给他看那些画，但又不想破坏他的圣诞惊喜。然而，某种东西促使我与他在那一刻分享。在让他发誓保密之后，我坚持让他闭上眼睛，直到我把肖像放在画架上。“好了，爸爸。现在你可以看了！”
他看起来有些茫然，但什么也没说。他站起来，走近仔细端详。然后他退后几步，从远处观看。我努力控制着胃里的翻腾。最后，一滴眼泪从他的脸颊滑落，他喃喃地说：“我真不敢相信。眼睛如此真实，仿佛跟着你到处走——看看你妈妈多美。你能让我把它们拿去装裱吗？”
我对他的反应感到欣喜若狂，高兴地主动提出第二天把它们送到装裱店。几周过去了。然后十一月的一个晚上，电话响了，一股寒意麻木了我的身体。我拿起听筒，听到我当医生的丈夫说：“我在急诊室。你父亲中风了。情况很糟，但他还活着。”
爸爸在昏迷中徘徊了几天。在他去世的前一天，我去医院看他。我把手滑进他的手里，问道：“爸爸，你知道我是谁吗？”
他低声说出的“你是我的宝贝女儿”让所有人都感到惊讶。第二天他就去世了，似乎所有的欢乐都从我和母亲的生活中流失了。
我终于想起来打电话询问肖像装裱的事，并感谢上帝让父亲在去世前有机会看到这些画。当店主告诉我父亲曾去过店里，付了装裱费并让人把它们包装成礼物时，我感到很惊讶。沉浸在悲痛中，我已不再计划把肖像送给母亲。
尽管我们失去了家庭的支柱，圣诞节那天大家还是聚在一起——努力表现得开心些。当我看着母亲悲伤的眼睛和没有笑容的脸时，我决定把爸爸和我的礼物送给她。当她撕开盒子包装纸时，我看得出她心不在焉。里面有一张小卡片附在画上。
看完肖像和卡片后，她的整个举止都变了。她从椅子上跳起来，把卡片递给我，并吩咐我的兄弟们把画面对面地挂在壁炉上方。她退后一步，看了很久。她眼中闪烁着泪光，脸上露出灿烂的笑容，迅速转过身来说：“我就知道爸爸会和我们一起过圣诞节的！”
我瞥了一眼父亲潦草手写的礼物卡。“母亲——我们的女儿提醒了我，我为何如此有福。我将永远注视着你——爸爸。”