父愛從未缺席

Every morning at approximately 8：48 a.m.， I pass it—the brick building that I visited many times as a child and that once seemed so grand， now a miniature playhouse in my mind.

My father used to live there， along with 549 other inmates. When I’d visit， as I often did， we’d chat and laugh—through a glass wall， telephones in hand.

For me， it was normal. It was all I knew. And I relished connecting with him. It was one of the most important relationships in my life， and still is today.

Experts say the years before you turn 5 are the most important. I must be lucky then. The day he was arrested on drug-related charges， the day I smiled at the policeman in our home， the day that everything changed was six months before my sixth birthday.

Over the years， the weekly commutes to visit my father became rituals. Eventually， after several years， we were allowed real visits when he was moved to a lower-security facility—the kind of visits where you can hug and tickle， where a conversation’s connection doesn’t depend on the distorted and crackly voice coming through the telephone， where words can be freely exchanged without the clock ticking， reminding you that time is slipping， moving faster than it should， faster than you’d like.

We’ve always shared a sense of understanding， my father and I. We can look at one another and know what the other is thinking. We get each other.

You’d think his absence would have prevented him from making rules， enforcing discipline and participating in the day-to-day of my childhood， but that wasn’t so. He wrote me every week， and I often go back and read what’s left of the folded， disintegrating letters. He’d tell me stories and I’d draw him fashion designs.

In person， we’d talk， not just speak. His life lessons， never cliché but always earnest， struck a chord with me and I soaked up every word. He told me that not having a father had been a detriment to his ego and that he’d overcompensated by feeling infallible well into his 30s. He spoke of the shame he’d caused his family and how there were times when he almost cracked， being isolated from his family， from love， from who he used to be.

Other children looked forward to Saturdays， long stretches of time when their fathers would take them to swimming or hockey lessons， to the park for a walk or for an ice-cream cone. I could barely sleep with anticipation， getting up as early as 5 a.m. to hop in the car for the two-hour drive ahead.

The ice cream I was missing paled in comparison with the sweet joy of simply “being” with my dad. To have our chats， to share outdoor barbecues with my father and other families who would gather. Most children have school friends and neighbourhood friends. I had those too， but I also had my jail friends， the girls and boys with whom I would run around and play tag， not truly comprehending why these individuals probably understood me and my life far better than anyone else.

My mother， who had long since separated from my father， would often ask me about my feelings， trying to uncover some inadequacy I felt， pressing for details and expressions that might make sense. How could I be okay？

But how could I not？ As a child， the word jail means nothing， and this proved itself when my stepmother broke the news to me a few months after my father’s arrest. She took me for an ice cream， and as we sat in her car in the parking lot， she explained why the police had been at our home， what it all meant， how my father would not be returning any time soon.

Yes， I cried， but only because I thought I was supposed to. I couldn’t comprehend the magnitude. I just did what all kids learn to do around this age， intuitively gauge what an adult wants from you and serve it up， all the while holding one’s breath while waiting for approval.

I was 11 when my father finally came home. I learned all about responsibility when he signed me up for a part-time job serving ice cream at the beach. I acted excited， though like most 11-year-olds， all I wanted to do was park myself in front of the television all summer long. But I wanted to please him， wanted to earn those extra smiles， all the ones I’d missed.

Years later， as I stare out the window while I pass that brick building on my daily commute to work， I often wonder if I lost something， if those special years that others had with their fathers， the ones I didn’t， harmed me in some way. Am I really that different？ Do I have attachment issues？

I still live at home， but so does every other twentysomething I know. They still enjoy home-cooked meals， pristinely arranged households and all bills paid for by their parents.

When I think about moving out， I know it’s not time yet. It’s not the conveniences that come from living a life almost free of responsibility， although that’s a bonus.

I’m not ready to give up the small inner burst of joy I get every morning when my dad pops his head into my bedroom and says， “Morning， Mini，” a nickname I’ve kept far too many years. I growl and tell him to “get out！” since it’s hours before I need to get up. But I can’t help smiling.

每天早晨，大約8點48分的時候，我都會路過那棟磚砌的建筑。小時候，我曾經多次造訪過那里。那時，這棟樓看起來是那么威嚴宏大，可如今它在我心里就像一個微型的玩具小屋。

我父親就曾住在那里，和其他549名囚犯生活在一起。我常常去探望他，每次去時，我們都有說有笑——只不過我和他之間隔著一堵玻璃墻，每人手里拿著電話。

對我來說，這種交流方式很正常。因為我所知道的交流方式就是這樣的。我喜歡這么和他聊天。那時候，和父親的交流是我生命中最重要的情感寄托之一，直至今天也是如此。

專家說，每個人五歲之前的經歷對其成長是最為重要的。要這么說的話，我肯定是幸運的。因為就在父親因毒品案被捕的那一天、我沖著那個闖進我家的警察微笑的那一天、我的生活從此完全改變的那一天，我已經五歲半了。

那之后許多年，我每星期都會坐車去探望父親，這已經成為一種習慣。終于，在幾年后，父親被轉到一所防衛不那么嚴格的監獄，我們這才被允許“真正”地探望他：我們可以互相擁抱，互相胳肢；可以直接對話而不再依賴電話里那種有些失真又沙啞的聲音；可以自由地交談，沒有時鐘在一旁嘀嗒嘀嗒，提醒我們時間在一點點溜走，而且那時鐘總是走得特別快，比你希望得快。

父親和我之間一直有那么一種默契。我們看著對方，就知道彼此心里在想什么。我們心有靈犀。

也許你會覺得，既然父親沒在家，他肯定沒辦法給我立規矩或是管教我，在我的童年生活里，他肯定也沒辦法天天陪著我，但實際情況卻并非如此。……