In the doorway of my home, I looked closely at the face of my 23-year-old son
Daniel, his backpack by his side. We were saying good-bye
In a few hours he would be flying to France
He would be staying there for at least a year to learn another language
and experience life in a different country
It was a transitional time in Daniel's life, a passage, a step from college into the adult world
I wanted to leave him some words that would have some meaning, some significance beyond the moment
But nothing came from my lips. No sound broke the stillness of my beachside home
Outside, I could hear the shrill cries of sea gulls
as they circled the ever changing surf on Long Island
Inside, I stood frozen and quiet, looking into the searching eyes of my son
What made it more difficult was that I knew this was not the first time I had let such a moment pass
When Daniel was five, I took him to the school-bus stop on his first day of kindergarten
I felt the tension in his hand holding mine as the bus turned the corner
I saw colour flush his cheeks as the bus pulled up. He looked at me-as he did now
What is it going to be like, Dad? Can I do it
Will I be okay? And then he walked up the steps of the bus and disappeared inside
And the bus drove away. And I had said nothing
A decade or so later, a similar scene played itself out
With his mother, I drove him to William and Mary College in Virginia
His first night, he went out with his new schoolmates
and when he met us the next morning, he was sick
He was coming down with mononucleosis, but we could not know that then
We thought he had a hangover
In his room, Dan lay stretched out on his bed as I started to leave for the trip home
I tried to think of something to say to give him courage and confidence
as he started this new phase of life
Again, words failed me. I mumbled something like
"Hope you feel better Dan." And I left
Now, as I stood before him, I thought of those lost opportunities
How many times have we all let such moments pass
A boy graduates from school, a daughter gets married
We go through the motions of the ceremony
but we don't seek out our children and find a quiet moment to tell them what they have meant to us
Or what they might expect to face in the years ahead
How fast the years had passed. Daniel was born in New Orleans, LA., in 1962
slow to walk and talk, and small of stature
He was the tiniest in his class, but he developed a warm
outgoing nature and was popular with his peers
He was coordinated and agile, and he became adept in sports
Baseball gave him his earliest challenge
He was an outstanding pitcher in Little League, and eventually
as a senior in high school, made the varsity
winning half the team's games with a record of five wins and two losses
At graduation, the coach named Daniel the team's most valuable player
His finest hour, though, came at a school science fair
He entered an exhibit showing how the circulatory system works
It was primitive and crude, especially compared to the fancy
computerized, blinking-light models entered by other students
My wife, Sara, felt embarrassed for him
It turned out that the other kids had not done their own work-their parents had made their exhibits
As the judges went on their rounds, they found that these other kids couldn't answer their questions
Daniel answered every one. When the judges awarded the Albert Einstein Plaque for the best exhibit
they gave it to him
By the time Daniel left for college he stood six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds
He was muscular and in superb condition, but he never pitched another inning
having given up baseball for English literature
I was sorry that he would not develop his athletic talent
but proud that he had made such a mature decision
One day I told Daniel that the great failing in my life had been that
I didn't take a year or two off to travel when I finished college
This is the best way, to my way of thinking
to broaden oneself and develop a larger perspective on life
Once I had married and begun working
I found that the dream of living in another culture had vanished
Daniel thought about this. His friends said that he would be insane to put his career on hold
But he decided it wasn't so crazy
After graduation, he worked as a waiter at college
a bike messenger and a house painter
With the money he earned, he had enough to go to Paris
The night before he was to leave, I tossed in bed
I was trying to figure out something to say. Nothing came to mind
Maybe, I thought, it wasn't necessary to say anything
What does it matter in the course of a life-time if a father never tells a son
what he really thinks of him? But as I stood before Daniel
I knew that it does matter. My father and I loved each other
Yet, I always regretted never hearing him put his feelings into words
and never having the memory of that moment
Now, I could feel my palms sweat and my throat tighten14
Why is it so hard to tell a son something from the heart
My mouth turned dry, and I knew I would be able to get out only a few words clearly
"Daniel," I said, "if I could have picked, I would have picked you
That's all I could say. I wasn't sure he understood what I meant
Then he came toward me and threw his arms around me
For a moment, the world and all its people vanished
and there was just Daniel and me in our home by the sea
He was saying something, but my eyes misted over
and I couldn't understand what he was saying
All I was aware of was the stubble on his chin as his face pressed against mine
And then, the moment ended. I went to work, and Daniel left a few hours later with his girlfriend
That was seven weeks ago, and I think about him when I walk along the beach on weekends
Thousands of miles away, somewhere out past the ocean waves breaking on the deserted shore
he might be scurrying across Boulevard Saint Germain
strolling through a musty hallway of the Louvre, bending an elbow in a Left Bank café
What I had said to Daniel was clumsy and trite17. It was nothing. And yet, it was everything