Not long ago， Matthew asked me， “Sons can grow up to be their daddies， right？” This was no small struggling for insight， and I was careful in my response. “No，” I said， “sons can grow up to be like their daddies in some ways， but they can’t be their daddies. They must be themselves.” Matthew would hear nothing of these subtleties.
“Sons can grow up to be their daddies！” He said defiantly. “They can.” I didn’t argue. It made me feel good.
All morning I am anxious. Matthew and I are about to leave Arizona for home， and I am determined to do something I have never done.
There is a time in every son’s life when he resents the echoes reminding him that， for all his vaunted individuality， he is his father’s son， but there should also come a time—as it had for me—when these echoes call out only the understanding that the generations have melded and blurred without threat.
So just before my son and I walk through the gate and onto our plane， I lean over， hug my father and say， “I want you to know that I love you. That I always have.”
父親仍是我兒時記憶中的樣子：濃密的頭發，勻稱的身體，黝黑的麵龐。不同的是，現在的他溫和而富於耐心。不知道是我變了，還是他變了。
我和兒子馬修乘飛機去亞利桑那州探親，馬修67歲的爺爺為了給他演奏，正調試著吉他。“你聽過‘噢，在野牛漫步的地方，給我一個家’嗎？”父親問。
那時，4歲的馬修在沙發上蹦個不停，父親不準他碰吉他，但他還是偶爾偷偷撥弄一下，嘴裏嘟囔個不停。
我小的時候，父親陪我的時間並不多。他是一個送奶工，每周工作七天。即便在工作時，他也像一個監工似的看管著我，把我那些搗亂的事統統加起來，晚上對我實施懲罰。但通常是些恐嚇的話，或隻是指著我大罵一通。
盡管我們父子之間常有摩擦，但我從不懷疑父親的愛，它連接著我們之間的生命線，讓我們一起度過了許多艱難歲月。我們擁有許多溫馨的回憶：一起坐在沙發上看電視；黃昏漫步於伊利諾伊州的小石路；唱著“紅河穀”，駕車回家。