佚名/Anonymous
在我的成长过程中，一直觉得，被人看到我与父亲在一起是件很尴尬的事。父亲个子矮小，且患有严重的脚疾。我们走在一起时，他总是挽着我的胳膊来保持身体平衡，这样难免会引来一些好奇的目光，令我很不自在。如果他注意到了我的这些细微变化，即使再痛苦他也会埋在心底，从不外露。
我们走路的步调很难协调一致——他行动迟缓，我毫无耐心。因此一路上我们交谈甚少。只是每次临走前，他总会说：“你走你的，我会尽量跟上你。”
我们常往返于家与地铁站之间的那段路，父亲要在那儿乘地铁去上班。他常会带病工作，不管天气多么恶劣，几乎没耽误过一天，就是在别人不能去的情况下，他也会设法去上班。实在是了不起！
冰封大地、漫天飞雪的季节，若是不借助外力的帮助，他几乎无法独自行走。每到这时，我和姐妹们就用儿童雪橇拉他通过纽约布鲁克林区的街道，把他直接送到地铁入口处。一到那儿，他便抓住扶手，走到底下的台阶时才放手，那里通道的空气暖和些，地上没结冰。到了曼哈顿，地铁站就在他办公楼的地下一层，在我们到布鲁克林接他回家前，他不必再走出楼来。
现在想起这些来，我就不禁慨叹，一个成年男子承受这种侮辱和压力需要多大的勇气啊！他竟然做到了——没有丝毫痛苦的迹象，也从未有任何抱怨。
他从不觉得自己可怜，也从不嫉妒别人的幸运和能力。他寻找着怀有“善心”的人们，当他发现时，人家确实对他不错。
如今，我已长大成人，我相信以“善心”为标准来判断人是很正确的，虽然我不甚清楚它的真正含义，但我知道有些时候自己缺乏善心。
虽然许多活动父亲不能参加，但他仍然设法以某种方式参与进去。当一个地方棒球队缺少领队时，他就做了领队。他是个棒球迷，有丰富的棒球知识，他过去常带我去埃比茨棒球场看布鲁克林的鬼精灵队的比赛。他喜欢参加舞会和晚会，很高兴地坐那儿当观众。
记得有一次，在海边的晚会上，有人打架，并动了拳头。父亲不忍坐视不管，但在松软的沙滩上，他又无法使自己站起来。失望之下，他便吼了起来：“你们谁坐下来和我打？”没人回应。第二天，人们都开玩笑说，还是头一次看到这种情形，比赛还没开始，拳击手就被劝服输。
如今，我知道，有些事情是父亲通过我——他唯一的儿子来参与的。我打球时——虽然我的球技很差，他也在“打球”。我参加海军时，他也“参加”。我休假在家时，他会让我去他办公室。在向同事介绍我时，他认认真真地说：“这是我儿子，也是我自己，假如事实不是这样的话，我也会像他一样做那些事情。”这些言语，他以前从未说出来过。
父亲虽已逝世多年，但我仍会时常想起他。不知他是否感觉到我和他在一起时，曾是那么不愿意被人看到。如果他知道那一切，我现在会感到非常遗憾，因为我从没告诉过他我是如此愧疚和悔恨，我是不孝的。每当我为琐事烦扰而怨天尤人时，为别人的红运当头而心怀妒忌时，为自己缺乏“善心”而自责时，我就会不由自主地想起父亲。
那时，我就会挽着他的胳膊，保持我的身体平衡，并说：“你走你的，我会尽量跟上你。”
When I was growing up，I was embarrassed to be seen with my father.He was severely crippled and very short，and when we walked together，his hand on my arm for balance，people would stare.I would inwardly squirm at the unwanted attention.If he ever noticed or was bothered，he never let on.
It was difficult to coordinate our steps—his halting，mine impatient—and because of that，we didn’t say much as we went along.But as we started out，he always said，“You set the pace.I will try to adjust to you.”
Our usual walk was to or from the subway，which was how he got to work.He went to work sick，and despite nasty weather.He almost never missed a day，and would make it to the office even if others could not.A matter of pride.
When snow or ice was on the ground，it was impossible for him to walk，even with help.At such times my sisters or I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn，NY，on a child’s sleigh to the subway entrance.Once there，he would cling to the handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice free.In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building，and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn’on his way home.
When I think of it now，I marvel at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to subject himself to such indignity and stress.And at how he did it—without bitterness or complaint.
He never talked about himself as an object of pity，nor did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able.What he looked for in others was a“good heart”，and if he found one，the owner was good enough for him.
Now that I am older，I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge people，even though I still don’t know precisely what a“good heart”is.But I know the times I don’t have one myself.
Unable to engage in many activities，my father still tried to participate in some way.When a local sandlot baseball team found itself without a manager，he kept it going.He was a knowledgeable baseball fan and often took me to Ebbets Field to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play.He liked to go to dances and parties，where he could have a good time just sitting and watching.
On one memorable occasion a fight broke out at a beach party，with everyone punching and shoving.He wasn’t content to sit and watch，but he couldn’t stand unaided on the soft sand.In frustration he began to shout，“I’ll fight anyone who will sit down with me！”Nobody did.But the next day people kidded him by saying it was the first time any fighter was urged to take a dive even before the bout began.
I now know he participated in some things vicariously through me，his only son.When I played ball(poorly)，he“played”too.When I joined the Navy，he“joined”too.And when I came home on leave，he saw to it that I visited his office.Introducing me，he was really saying，“This is my son，but it is also me，and I could have done this，too，if things had been different.”Those words were never said aloud.
He has been gone many years now，but I think of him often.I wonder if he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks.If he did，I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was，how unworthy I was，how I regretted it.I think of him when I complain about trifles，when I am envious of another’s good fortune，when I don’t have a“good heart”.
At such times I put my hand on his arm to regain my balance，and say，“you set the pace，I will try to adjust to you.”