Somewhere in the world, it is now Nov 14. Dad's birthday.
父亲从小就很宠我。 至今很多人都会说， “你爸看你的眼神都透露着爱。”
有很长时间，我并没有懂得这句话的意思。 我从没听他说过 “爱” 这个字， 我也没有仔细的去想。 我只会一心放手的去作事， 从不在意他是否会生气， 现在想想那是因为他总是会原谅我。
我家小时后很穷，因为国家动乱，民不聊生。 我记的每年只有过新年的时候才能吃一次鸡。 爸爸早早就会跑去市场买来一只活鸡，把他杀好洗净， 然后放在小火上煮，大半天的功夫才能炖出香香的一锅鸡肉和鸡汤。 忙了一整天， 晚饭的时后才会把鸡端到桌上。
但是爸爸从来都不会吃好不容意才做好的鸡肉， 他总是让我和哥哥先吃。 他却去吃鸡的头和心脏。 因为我最小，他总让我先跳最好的胸脯肉， 然后哥哥吃大腿， 妈妈爱吃脚和脖子， 剩下最后才是他吃的。 一边吃，他还一边给我们讲故事， 让我们吃的又饱又开心。
爸爸很爱讲故事， 从小我就记得他讲过几百次的小马过河的故事。三岁的时候，我正在给自己讲，院子里的小朋友们听到了，都慢慢的聚到我家门口，听我讲小马怎么听了朋友的话，但使用了自己的实验，才真正渡过了汹猛的大河。 我也就从那时起，就爱上了读书和给别人讲故事的快乐。
几年后，爸爸还给我讲了一个“雾都孤儿” 的故事。 他在学English, 所以他一边看原文，一边翻译成中文，讲给我们听。 我们一边做饭，一边听，故事把我带到了遥远的London, 让我看到了孤儿大卫地悲惨生活， 让我更加崇拜父亲的毅力和才华， 让我看到了英国文学的魅力，也让我更深刻的懂得了生活（虽穷但在父母身边）的美好。
现在想来，做为女儿，我也从没有说过爱字。 我只有他的眼神，他的步伐，他的容忍和耐心，他的笑容，和他的故事， 永远在我的心中。
I was the apple of father's eye since the begining. Even to date, many still tell me: "the way your father looks at you is so tender and in awe..."
For a long time, I did not realize what this meant. I have never heard him tell me "I love you" but I never really dwelt on it. I just always felt free to do whatever I felt like, as deep down inside I knew that father will always forgive and love me the same.
My family was very poor when I was little, as were most of China, being in the midst of the notorious "Culture Revolution". Only on occasion as new years eve did we have the luxury to have chicken for this important celebration. Father always got up early to the market to buy the best live chicken our meager savings could afford, came home by midday to clean and stew the chicken slowly all the rest of the day; so the air becomes delicious and palatable by dinner time with the fragrance of the real chicken fat tantalizing our nostrils.
But after all the hard work, father never ate any of the delicately stewed meat. Being the youngest, I would always get the first pick of the tender breast meat, as I was the "protected tender heart of the family". My older brother would get the leg meat, so he could "grow strong to help carry the family". Mom favors chicken feet and the meat us children couldn't finish, so when it comes to dad, the only thing left are the head and neck, which no one ever wanted. He used to joke, "I am the 'brain' of the family and I will sing with beautiful voice someday with all the throat I am eating". The singing part really made us laugh. He would also tell other stories to keep us entertained while eating.
Father loves to spin a yarn. I could remember as far back as memories will carry, that he constantly read or told me tales, my favorite was "The little horse crossing the river", which he told me so many times that I memorized it. One day, I was sitting on a little bench in our yard retelling myself the story, when the neighbor's children overheard and gathered around me one by one until a small crowd of 6-7 sat listening intently, to the astonishment of their parents. The joy of reading and telling stories took seed in me then.
Several years later, father began reading a long and heavy book -- "David Copperfield". He was studying English to ready himself for new opportunities in America, and he wanted to involve us by translating the original text and tell us the story in Chinese, a small section a day. So around dinner time, we would sit together while working on our chores, doing homework, or simply stop playing to listen to the story. It brought us to the far away land of England, the misty city of London, and into the life of David's desolation and struggles. It elevated my admiration for father's diligence, perseverance and talent, taught me the beauty of classical English literature, and most of all showed me appreciation for the wonders of life (when being surrounded by loving parents and a warm home).
Thinking back now, father never told me "I love you". Yet his every late night trip for something special for me to eat, his every life lesson, his every early rising and late resting day at work, his every trip to take me to the hospital for another cough or fever outburst, his every story and music, are the deepest expression of his fatherly love.
Thinking back now, I never told him "I love you". Yet I have his gaze, his stride, his endurance and patience, his laugh, and his stories, forever carved into my heart.
Your loving daughter