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.”
父亲仍是我儿时记忆中的样子：浓密的头发，匀称的身体，黝黑的面庞。不同的是，现在的他温和而富于耐心。不知道是我变了，还是他变了。
我和儿子马修乘飞机去亚利桑那州探亲，马修67岁的爷爷为了给他演奏，正调试着吉他。“你听过‘噢，在野牛漫步的地方，给我一个家’吗？”父亲问。
那时，4岁的马修在沙发上蹦个不停，父亲不准他碰吉他，但他还是偶尔偷偷拨弄一下，嘴里嘟囔个不停。
我小的时候，父亲陪我的时间并不多。他是一个送奶工，每周工作七天。即便在工作时，他也像一个监工似的看管着我，把我那些捣乱的事统统加起来，晚上对我实施惩罚。但通常是些恐吓的话，或只是指着我大骂一通。
尽管我们父子之间常有摩擦，但我从不怀疑父亲的爱，它连接着我们之间的生命线，让我们一起度过了许多艰难岁月。我们拥有许多温馨的回忆：一起坐在沙发上看电视；黄昏漫步于伊利诺伊州的小石路；唱着“红河谷”，驾车回家。