另一種背影
The sight of someone’s back
of another kind.

華安上小學第一天，我和他手牽著手，穿過好幾條街，到維多利亞小學。九月初，家家戶戶院子裡的蘋果和梨樹都綴滿了拳頭大小的果子，枝枒因為負重而沈沈下垂，越出了樹籬，勾到過路行人的頭髮。
On the first day Hwa-An went to school, I walked with him, hand in hand, over several intersections to Victoria Elementary. It was early September; in the yards of the neighborhood, the trees were embellished and heavily laden with fist-sized apples and pears, pressing the twigs down over the fences to hook the hairs of passersby.

很多很多的孩子，在操場上等候上課的第一聲鈴響。小小的手，圈在爸爸的、媽媽的手心裡，怯怯的眼神，打量著周遭。他們是幼稚園的畢業生，但是他們還不知道一個定律：一件事情的畢業，永遠是另一件事情的開啟。
A whole host of kids who graduated from kindergarten gathered in the
playground, waiting for the first bell to ring ever, inviting them to the
classes. Their tiny hands were enclosed in their parents’; their timid eyes were looking things up and down around them, unaware of the rule that a graduation always means another commencement.

鈴聲一響，頓時人影錯雜，奔往不同方向，但是在那麼多穿梭紛亂的人群裡，我無比清楚地看著自己孩子的背影──就好像在一百個嬰兒同時哭聲大作時，你仍舊能夠準確聽出自己那一個的位置。華安背著一個五顏六色的書包往前走，但是他不斷地回頭；好像穿越一條無邊無際的時空長河，他的視線和我凝望的眼光隔空交會。我看著他瘦小的背影消失在門裡。
Bell rang. In no time, the kids dispersed into different directions, but I could clearly identify the back of my son among the stampeding and shuttling kids, just as you could unmistakably locate your own baby among a gaggle of crying infants. With a multicolored knapsack on his back, Hwa-An kept walking forward, and turning his head back continually, seemingly penetrating an immense tunnel of time and space. My gazing eyes met his
sight in the air. Finally, the sight of his skinny back disappeared, and the door of the classroom locked me out.

十六歲，他到美國作交換生一年。我送他到機場。告別時，照例擁抱，我的頭只能貼到他的胸口，好像抱住了長頸鹿的腳。他很明顯地在勉強忍受母親的深情。他在長長的行列裡，等候護照檢驗；我就站在外面，用眼睛跟著他的背影一寸一寸往前挪。終於輪到他，在海關窗口停留片刻，然後拿回護照，閃入一扇門，倏乎不見。我一直在等候，等候他消失前的回頭一瞥。但是他沒有，一次都沒有。
When he was sixteen, I saw him at the airport on his way to the United States as an exchange student. As usual,I gave him a hug when we parted. My head could only reach his chest, like I was holding the leg of a giraffe. Obviously, he was reluctantly accepting his mother’s deep devotion to him. He lined up in a long queue, waiting for the passport inspection. I was standing outside the immigration room, and my eyes followed him as his back groped along, inch by inch. At last, it was his turn. He stayed in front of the counter for a while, then took back his passport, rushed off into a gate, and disappeared. I had been hoping for one last look from him. But he didn’t, not at all.

現在他二十一歲，上的大學，正好是我教課的大學。但即使是同路，他也不願搭的車。即使同車，他戴上耳機──只有一個人能聽的音樂，是一扇緊閉的門。有時他在對街等候公車，我從高樓的窗口往下看：一個高高瘦瘦的青年，眼睛望向灰色的海；我只能想像，他的內在世界和我的一樣波濤深邃，但是，我進不去。一會兒公車來了，擋住了他的身影。車子開走，一條空蕩蕩的街，只立著一只郵筒
He is now twenty-one, studying at a college that happens to be the one I am teaching at. Despite aiming for the same destination, he won’t let me give him a ride. Even when he is in my car, he is always wearing an earphone, listening to the music for him only, like closing the door to everything outside. Sometimes I watch him waiting for buses on the opposite side of the street from our department. Down from the window, I can see a lanky young man staring blankly at a stretch of gray ocean, and I can only image
that his inner world is as profound as that of mine, but I just can’t get into it. A bus is coming, keeping him out of my sight and taking him away, leaving the bare street with a lone mailbox.

我慢慢地、慢慢地瞭解到，所謂父女母子一場，只不過意味著，你和他的緣分就是今生今世不斷地在目送他的背影漸行漸遠。你站立在小路的這一端，看著他逐漸消失在小路轉彎的地方，而且，他用背影默默告訴你：不必追。
Gradually, I realized that the so-called affinity between parents and children is that you keep seeing the sight of his back off you until it fades away. You stand on the other side of a road, watching him disappear in the corner, and the sight of his back tells you, Don’t tag along with me.

我慢慢地、慢慢地意識到，我的落寞，彷彿和另一個背影有關。博士學位讀完之後，我回台灣教書。到大學報到第一天，父親用他那輛運送飼料的廉價小貨車長途送我。到了我才發覺，他沒開到大學正門口，而是停在側門的窄巷邊。卸下行李之後，他爬回車內，準備回去，明明啟動了引擎，卻又搖下車窗，頭伸出來說：「女兒，爸爸覺得很對不起你，這種車子實在不是送大學教授的車子。」我看著他的小貨車小心地倒車，然後噗噗駛出巷口，留下一團黑煙。直到車子轉看不見了，我還站在那裡，一口皮箱旁。
Gradually, I also realized that my loneliness seemed to have something to do with another sight of someone’s back. After completing my doctorate, I returned to Taiwan for a teaching job. On the first day I reported to the college, my father gave me a ride on his heap pickup, which had been used for carrying fodder. Not until we arrived at the college did I notice he stopped the pickup temporarily at a narrow lane next to the side entrance, not at the front gate. Having unloaded my baggage,he got back to the driver’s seat and started the engine again, but didn’t
drive away at once. He lowered the side window and said, "Sweetie, I am sorry, this is not the kind of car that should drive a professor to college." I saw him cautiously reverse the pickup, which was spewing clouds of thick black smoke as it chugged its way out of the lane. I was still standing there beside a leather bag until the pickup was totally out of my sight.

每個禮拜到醫院去看他，是十幾年後的時光了。推著他的輪椅散步，他的頭低垂到胸口。有一次，發現排泄物淋滿了他的褲腿，我蹲下來用自己的手帕幫他擦拭，裙子也沾上了糞便，但是我必須就這樣趕回台北上班。護士接過他的輪椅，我拎起皮包，看著輪椅的背影，在自動玻璃門前稍停，然後沒入門後。我總是在暮色沉沉中奔向機場。
After a period of over a decade, I visited him in the hospital.
every week, strolling together with him confined in a wheelchair, his head hanging down on his chest. Once he was incontinent and I found filthy waste defecated all over his trousers, and I crouched down to wipe them off with my handkerchief. The feces tainted my skirt, but I had to leave for Taipei that way. A nurse took over the wheelchair, and I picked up my bag, watching as the back of the wheelchair stopped at the revolving door, and then vanished behind it. I almost always rushed to the airport in the dusky evenings.

火葬場的爐門前，棺木是一只巨大而沈重的抽屜，緩緩往前滑行。沒有想到可以站得那麼近，距離爐門也不過五公尺。雨絲被風吹斜，飄進長廊內。我掠開雨濕了前額頭髮，深深、深深地凝望，希望記得這最後一次的目送。我慢慢地、慢慢地了解到，所謂父女母子一場，只不過意味著，你和他的緣分就是今生今世不斷地在目送他的背影漸行漸遠。你站立在小路的這一端，看著他逐漸消失在小路轉彎的地方，而且，他用背影默默告訴你：不必追。
Slowly sliding into the furnace of the cremation site was a huge,
heavy drawer as a makeshift coffin. To my surprise, I was allowed to stand in front of the furnace as closely as five meters. Blown by the wind, the drizzle slanted through the hallway, and I brushed open the wetted hair on my forehead,following him with my deep glances, hoping I could forever remember this one last sendoff. Slowly, I realized the so-called affinity between parents and children is that you keep seeing the sight of his back off you until it fades away. You stand on the other side of a road, watching him disappear in the corner, and the sight of his back tells you, Don’t tag along with me.