T he photograph falls out of the cupboard as I search for a book. It lands face down, but I know, as it 1)flutters to the ground, exactly what it is. I have not seen it for years but the sight of it—2)sepia brown and 3)creased with age—makes me catch my breath as, involuntarily, the years rolled away and I remember.
It was a Saturday in July, one of those gloriously 4)promising summer mornings. I stood at the kitchen window watching the postman 5)pedaling down the laneway and waited for the 6)clink of the letterbox before rushing into the hall to collect the post. Two letters, both with foreign stamps, both addressed to my father, lay on the mat. One was fat, a 7)crumpled, slightly 8)grubby, brown envelope, and the other thin, 9)pristine white, with elegant black, 10)copperplate handwriting.
I remember sliding my fingers back and forward across its smooth and glossy surface, knowing that there had to be great news inside such an envelope.
“Two letters Daddy, both for you. I’ll hold the other while you read the first.”
My father, seeing the brown envelope, smiled, his eyes 11)crinkling up the little arrowed lines, which 12)webbed outwards across his cheeks.
“It’s from your uncle Joe in South Africa, pet,” he said as he put his hand into his pocket. Taking out his penknife, he 13)slit the envelope neatly along the top edge.
As he pulled the letter out, a photograph fell onto the table. He picked it up and looked at it and started to laugh, his head thrown back in utter joy. I was amazed that a photograph could be so funny, so I walked over to stand behind his chair. Using the back as a lever, I raised myself up on my tiptoes and 14)peered over his shoulder.
As I bend down now—15 years later—to pick up the photograph, I recall my excitement and 15)embarrassment at what I saw—three men, swimming in a lake, all obviously 16)naked, two of them having reached the bank, pulling themselves up out of the water. One of the men looked so much like my father that I had known immediately that he was my uncle.
I had been confused by the feelings, which their nakedness created in me and I had moved away, knowing my 10-year-old face was burning, while my heart was racing. I quickly placed the other letter on the table and 17)retreated to the sofa to bury my head in a 18)comic.
My father was 19)chuckling as he read. I watched him from under my 20)fringe as he lifted the second letter, looking puzzled, not recognizing the writing. My earlier 21)anticipation was returning and I sat up straight, watching as he carefully extracted a single sheet of paper, shining white like the envelope.
I could contain myself no longer and rushing over to hang around his neck I whispered excitedly: “Tell me Daddy, tell me. Who is it from, what does it say?”
I can feel the tears on my face as I turn the photograph in my hands and I remember how my father turned away, blocking both his face and the letter from me. The clock had suddenly seemed to 22)tick loudly in the room as some unknown 23)tension transmitted itself to me. Lifting my eyes I saw my father’s head sink slowly down to his chest, supported inches from the table by a hand placed on his forehead.
While I had been unprepared for the first 24)stirrings of sexual awareness, which the photograph had 25)engendered, the sight of my father crying was even more 26)bewildering and frightening. Fathers were strong. Fathers did not cry. I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around him, but found I could not move. So I had sat and watched, pretending to read, as my heart hammered noisily in my chest. I 27)yearned to be hugged. I wanted to be told that the promise of the beautiful July morning was yet to be fulfilled.
As I stand, reflecting, I wonder what happened to uncle Joe’s letter. It was the last letter he would ever write. It was the letter he had posted on the same morning as the South African mine 28)collapsed on top of him. It was the letter that arrived in the same post as the formal 29)notification of his death from the company secretary to my father, his next of 30)kin.
I had taken the photograph and hidden it under my mattress for months. I had not wanted my father to see it again, thinking that I was somehow protecting him from the rawness of his own 31)grief. Over the years he had spoken of it, 32)pondering aloud as to where it could have gone, but I had never returned it, keeping it like the 33)watershed between innocence and worldly pain.
The white letter I had taken away also, but my father never missed it. He did not need it to remember his loss. But I had hated it for what it had done and I had burned it, tearing it into tiny pieces.
The photograph brings it all back. As I turn it over and see the picture of the young happy men in the water, I can hear, once again, my father’s laughter resounding in my ears. It is such a joyful image that I realize that I did a great wrong in keeping this last memory of Uncle Joe from my father. It is not too late to give it back.
I wait until Saturday when we are alone in the house. I hand it to him without a word. His eyes fly open in disbelief as he takes it and places it on top of his open palms. He stares at it almost 34)reverently, as if he studying a holy book. I watch him, as his face shines 35)beatifically.
I go and stand behind his chair and leaning forward I lay my face against his. I want to be close to him when he turns the photograph over. He has never read the message, which Uncle Joe wrote on the reverse. I know the words will upset him.
“36)Phew! Made it to the other side.” It was meant to be a joke, not the 37)poignant message it would become.
This time he does not turn his face away as
his tears fall soft as kisses on my cheek. This time he does not reject me. This
time neither of us is afraid of emotions. I hug him close. He rises, the
photograph still in his hand, and hugs me back and we cry together.
我找书的时候，一张照片从书柜里掉了下来。虽然是面朝下地掉到地上，但我知道飘飘坠地的是幅什么照片。封藏多年，现在看到它——棕褐的色调、岁月添上的皱痕——令我不自觉地屏住呼吸，那些岁月流逝了，但我仍然记忆犹新。
那是七月的一个周六，一个让人特有盼头的夏日早晨，我站在靠厨房窗户的一个位置，看着邮递员骑车沿着巷道派送信件，听到信箱叮当一响，我便冲出大厅去取信。从信箱掉到门口垫子上总共有两封信，盖的都是外国邮戳，收信人都是写我爸的名字。一封鼓鼓胀胀的，棕色的信封皱皱的，有点脏。另外一封薄薄的，清新纯白的信封上是优雅清晰的黑色铜版字体。
记得当时我爱不释手地摸着那光滑白亮的信封，觉得里面一定藏着什么好消息。
“爸爸，有两封信，都是你的。你看第一封，另外那封我先帮你拿着。”
看到那棕色的信封，爸爸笑了，眼睛眯得鱼尾纹都出来了，笑纹扩散到脸颊上。
“宝贝，是你在南非的乔叔叔写来的。”说着，他把手伸进口袋，拿出他的小折刀，沿着信封口整齐地开封。
他抽出信的同时，一张照片从里面掉到桌上。爸捡起照片，一看便乐翻了，仰头大笑起来。一张照片也能这么好笑，我很好奇想看看，于是走到爸爸的椅子后面，用椅背借力撑起自己，踮着脚尖从他背后偷看。
15年后的今天，我弯下身捡起落在地上的这张照片，回忆起当年看到照片时的兴奋和尴尬的感觉——照片上的三个男人在湖里游泳，明显能看见他们都没穿衣服，其中两人已经游到岸边，正准备上岸。其中一个男人长得和我爸很像，一看就知道是我叔叔。
那时候我只有十岁，赤身裸体的形象令我一时感觉混乱，脸蛋红得发烫，心跳得厉害，我马上走开了，把另一封信放到桌上，然后躲回沙发上，埋头去看我的漫画书了。
爸爸看信看得咯咯直笑。我没有抬头，从刘海下，瞥见爸爸拿起第二封信，他认不出信封上的字迹，一副疑惑的表情。我心中重燃起对好消息的期待，于是坐直身子，望着爸爸小心翼翼地抽出一张信纸，那信纸跟信封一样光洁亮白。
我再也按捺不住了，跑过去爸爸那儿一手搂住他的脖子，兴冲冲地在他耳边低声说：“爸爸，告诉我嘛，是谁写来的？写些什么呀？”
爸爸当时转过身，不让我看到他的脸和那封信，现在的我揣着这张照片，回想着，眼泪不由落下。那个时候，从没有过的紧张气氛朝我袭来，房子里的嘀嗒钟声似乎突然特别响。举目只见爸爸用手撑着前额，头越垂越低，还有几寸便碰到桌子了。
早前那张照片带来的性意识冲击，让我措手不及，而看到爸爸痛哭更是令我困扰惊慌。做父亲的都是很坚强的，他们是不会哭的。究竟怎么了？我很想跑过去抱着他，但我迈不开步子。我只好坐着，假装在看书，其实眼睛一直留意着爸爸的一举一动，心噗嗵噗嗵直跳。我恨不得爸爸过来抱抱我，告诉我，他之前许诺我的美好夏日早晨还会兑现。
现在的我站着细想当初的一切，究竟乔叔叔的信里写了些什么呢？那是他写的最后一封信。就在他寄出这封信的那天早上，他所在的那个南非矿井坍塌了。他的那封信和他公司秘书寄来的正式宣布他死讯的信件居然在同一批邮件中寄到了我爸爸，他的至亲手上。
我把照片拿走，藏到了自己的床垫下面，藏了好几个月。我不想爸爸再看到它，以为这样做就可以保护他不再受丧亲的切肤之痛。多少年来爸爸也会说起这事，老听他说不知相片跑哪儿去了。我倒是一直没把相片还他，把它藏着，作为我从不知愁滋味到初尝人世伤痛的转折印记。
我还把那封白色悼信藏了起来，但我爸从来也没提到过。他不需要那封信来记起过去的伤痛。我却讨厌那封信所造成的一切，于是我把信撕成了碎片，烧掉了它。
看着手中的照片，往昔的回忆一一涌现眼前。把照片翻到正面来，可以看到在水中那几个快乐的小伙子，耳际似乎再一次传来爸爸的笑声。乔叔叔给爸爸的这个最后的回忆，这么令人愉悦的照片，我竟然把它藏起来，太不应该了。现在拿出来也许还不算迟。
等到周六，屋子里只有我和爸两个人，我一声不响地把照片递给他。他瞪大眼睛，把相片放在手心上，显得不敢相信眼前的一切。他几乎是带着读圣书般的虔诚专注凝视着那相片。我望着他，他的脸上闪耀着幸福的光芒。
我走过去站在他的椅子后面，探头往他的脸上靠过去，我想在他把相片翻过背面的时候紧靠着他。他从未看过乔叔叔在相片背后写的那句话，我知道爸爸看完会很伤心。
上面写着：“唷!到尽头了。”这本来是说着玩的，想不到后来竟成了令人痛彻心扉的一句话。
爸哭了，但这次他没有转过头去，他的泪水温柔地吻着我的脸。这次，他没有拒我于千里之外。这次，我们都无惧于流露自己的情感。我紧紧地抱着他，他站起来，手揣着相片，抱着我，两人相拥而泣。