有风…有风…纪念父亲

欧阳红

近九十六岁的父亲于2025年10月10日离世。虽然早已在心里有所准备，但悲伤仍如河水般涌来。

我这不太管用的脑子里，不断浮现出岁岁月月的片段——

My father, nearly ninety-six years old, passed away on October 10, 2025.

Though I had long tried to prepare myself for that day, grief still surged over me like a river.

In my not-so-reliable mind, scenes from the passing years keep surfacing again and again—

一个年轻的爸爸，牵着扎着两条小辫子的小女孩，去水果湖买一分钱的糯米糖。

回家的路上，爸爸背着双手慢慢走着，小女孩则用两根小棍，小心地拉扯着那根粘乎乎的糖……

每天放学回家，爸爸总要把她高高抱起，开开心心地抛上几下。

七岁那年，小女孩对爸爸说：“以后别再抛我啦。”

爸爸真的就再也没有抛过。

也是那一年，年轻的爸爸要带女儿去游泳。

女儿害怕，不敢下水。

爸爸笑着说：“那就在岸上看看吧。”

女儿同意去了，却依然不愿下水。

爸爸就让她坐在石凳上，看别的小朋友玩.这样来来回回好几次，直到女儿终于鼓起勇气，愿意下水。

脑海里忽然又浮现出这样一个画面——

小女孩不会做减法，15减7。

她跑去问正在看书的爸爸。

爸爸放下书，拿起女儿的铅笔，在纸上画了十五个竖，

然后从后面一一画上七个斜横，耐心地教她数剩下的竖。

那时的爸爸，总是那么开心、快乐。

夏天的中午，女儿每天陪爸爸午睡。

睡前，总要伸手去抱着爸爸的胳膊，仿佛这样，就能让爸爸永远不离开。

可每次醒来，爸爸都已经不见了。

桌上，会留着一个大梨子。

有一次，她醒来发现桌上，午觉前放着一大一小两个梨。

大梨没了，只剩下小梨。

她气呼呼地跑到妈妈工作的医务室去告状。

妈妈批评道：“看你，爸爸平时对你多好，吃了个大点的梨你还不高兴？”

A young father held the hand of a little girl with two braids,

taking her to buy sticky rice candy for one cent at market mile away.

On the way home, he walked slowly with his hands clasped behind his back,

while the little girl, using two thin sticks, carefully stretched out that long, sticky strand of candy…

Every day after school, Father would lift her high into the air,

laughing as he tossed her up a few times.

When she was seven, the little girl said, “Daddy, don’t throw me anymore.”

And from that day on, he never did again.

That same year, the young father wanted to teach his daughter to swim.

The girl was afraid and wouldn’t go into the water.

Smiling, he said, “Then just sit by the shore and watch.”

She agreed, but still refused to get in.

So he let her sit on a stone bench and watch the other children play.

They went like that several times, until at last she gathered her courage and stepped into the water.

Then, another image suddenly rises in my mind—

The little girl couldn’t figure out how to subtract 7 from 15.

She ran to her father, who was reading.

He put down his book, picked up her pencil, and drew fifteen vertical lines on the paper.

Then, starting from the end, he crossed out seven of them,

patiently teaching her to count the ones that remained.

At that time, Father was always so cheerful, so full of joy.

On summer noons, the little girl would nap with her father.

Before falling asleep, she always reached out to hold his arm,

as if by doing so, she could keep him from ever leaving.

But each time she woke, Father was already gone,

and on the table, there would be a big pear waiting.

Once, before their nap, there had been two pears on the table—one big, one small.

When she woke, the big one was gone, only the small one remained.

She stormed off to her mother’s clinic to complain.

Mother scolded gently, “Look at you—your father treats you so well,

and you’re upset just because he ate the bigger pear?”

真奇怪啊——

为什么有些事，会在脑海里一辈子都不散去呢？

童年的记忆里，父亲总爱夸我仔细，也常批评我动作慢，尤其是吃饭。

那时我最喜欢吃油炸馒头，总要先吃里面的白馒头心，把香脆的皮留到最后。

爸爸看见了笑着说：“你快点吃啊，不然又是你哥的啦！”

除了这些小事，我几乎记不得父母曾真正批评过我。

儿时记忆里，家里爸爸妈妈的懷抱是那么温暖。

周末，爸爸妈妈带我们去汉口动物园游玩。

回家电车上，总归会睡着……

原来，爱有时不需言语，它只是静静地存在——

在糯米糖的甜香里，在游泳池边的阳光下，

在大梨子留下的清香里，也在那温柔的笑声中。How strange it is—

that some memories never fade, no matter how many years go by.

In my childhood memories, Father always praised me for being careful,

but often teased that I was too slow—especially when eating.

Back then, my favorite treat was fried buns.

I would always eat the soft white center first, saving the crispy golden crust for last.

Father would laugh and say, “Hurry up, or your brother will eat it!”

Aside from such little things, I can hardly remember my parents ever truly scolding me.

In those days, our home was filled with warmth,

and my parents’ arms were the safest place in the world.

On weekends, they would take us to the Hankou Zoo,

and I would always fall asleep on the tram ride home…

It turns out, love does not always need words.

It quietly lingers—

in the sweetness of rice candy,

in the sunlight beside the swimming pool,

in the gentle fragrance of a pear,

and in the soft sound of laughter that still echoes in memory.

父亲是一位热爱读书的人。那是一个特殊的年代——文革时期，书籍几乎成了奢侈品，但父亲从未放下过书本。

每天晚饭后，他总会坐在灯前安静地学习。我们常常笑着说：“爸爸你这样天天学习，早晚要成专家啦。”

他也笑着回答：“那我从今天起就看医学书吧，也成个像你妈妈一样的医生。”

家里虽然不富裕，但父亲的书架总是满满当当的。每当他有一点稿费，就会悄悄地买回几本世界名著。那些书承载着他对知识的热爱，也成了我们童年最早的启蒙。

他总是鼓励我们读书。我常常沉浸在他的书堆里。有一次，我正读《水浒传》读得入神，他让我去帮忙摘菜，我没理会。他一时生气，把书夺过去扔下楼。我怔了一下，又慢悠悠地走下楼，把书捡起来，继续读。他并没有再责怪我。父亲其实脾气温和，偶尔的严厉背后，总有一份理解与宽容。那盏灯下翻书的身影，成了我记忆中最温暖的画面。

父亲不仅用书本影响我，更在行动中引导我走好人生的路。父亲极重视读书和受教育。他深知知识能改变命运，因此不仅鼓励我们学习，也以身作则。工作之余，他坚持进修，最终拿到了武汉大学中文系的本科文凭。那份求知的毅力与精神，成为我们一生的榜样。

他教我游泳，鼓励我加入学校的游泳队；教我骑自行车，接送妹妹回家；支持我加入航模俱乐部，培养了我探索与实践的精神。

当时俱乐部里有几个朋友，为了避免下乡准备放弃学业。父亲发现我也长期不在学校时，亲自来到俱乐部找我谈心。他语重心长地说：放弃学习是错误的选择。那次谈话，让我重新回到课堂，也让我没有像其他朋友那样，错失读大学的机会。

后来，当我考上大学，却在专业选择上犹豫不决时，又是父亲一锤定音，建议我去华工学习激光专业。我的整个人生轨迹，都深深烙上了父亲的印记。

Father was a man who loved books.

It was a special time—the Cultural Revolution—when books had become rare luxuries, yet he never stopped reading.

Every evening after dinner, he would sit quietly under the lamp, absorbed in study.

We often teased him, saying, “Dad, if you keep studying like this every day, you’ll become an expert one day!”

He would laugh and reply, “Then I’d better start reading medical books, so I can become a doctor like your mother.”

Though our family was not wealthy, Father’s bookshelf was always full.

Whenever he earned a bit of manuscript payment, he would secretly buy a few volumes of world classics.

Those books carried his deep love for knowledge—and became our earliest window into a wider world.

He always encouraged us to read. I often lost myself among his piles of books.

Once, I was completely engrossed in The Water Margin, when he asked me to help pick vegetables.

I didn’t respond.

In irritation, he grabbed the book and threw it out the .

I froze for a moment, then slowly went downstairs, picked it up, and kept reading.

He never scolded me again.

Father’s temper was gentle; even in moments of sternness, there was always an undercurrent of understanding and patience.

That image of him turning the pages under the warm lamplight remains one of the fondest pictures in my memory.

Father influenced me not only through books but through the way he lived his life.

He valued education deeply, believing that knowledge could change one’s destiny.

He didn’t just urge us to study—he led by example.

While working full-time, he continued his own studies and eventually earned a bachelor’s degree in Chinese Literature from Wuhan University.

That perseverance and hunger for knowledge became a lifelong model for us.

He taught me how to swim and encouraged me to join the school’s swim team;

he taught me how to ride a bicycle and how to take my little sister home;

he supported me in joining the model aviation club, which fostered in me a spirit of exploration and experimentation.

At that time, some of my friends at the club wanted to give up school to avoid being sent to the countryside.

When Father discovered that I, too, had been skipping classes for a long time,

he came to the club to talk to me in person.

He spoke to me earnestly: “Giving up your education is a mistake.”

That conversation brought me back to school—and saved me from missing the chance to attend university, as some of my friends later did.

Years later, when I was admitted to college but hesitated over which major to choose,

it was again Father who made the decisive call, encouraging me to study laser science at Huazhong University of Science and Technology.

My entire life’s path bears the deep imprint of his guidance.

父母一直鼓励我们追求知识的最高境界。记得有一次，父亲开会回来，带回一个纪念公文包，笑着说：“谁读了博士，这个包就送给谁。”

父亲不仅懂得引导，也懂得放手。

读研究生时，我常陷入迷茫与焦虑，不停地给他写信。父亲每次回信都平静如常，只劝我多和导师交流、多与同学沟通。那时我觉得他太淡然，如今才懂——他早已决定不再牵着我的手走路。

他选择做一个倾听者，是在告诉我：孩子，独立的时候到了。

他用读书教我们求知，用行动告诉我们选择，用沉默让我们学会独立。

然而，当我真正踏入人生另一段旅程时，父母又以另一种方式默默托举着我们。

那一年，我和晓帆结婚，生下孩子后便远赴美国留学。那段日子里，要兼顾学业和育儿，确实艰难。父母知道我们的处境，便商量着要来美国帮我们。那时他们都还在工作，我听见母亲说：“我一个人不想去。” 父亲便接道：“那我去吧。”——其实，他是在鼓励母亲。

于是，母亲毅然踏上旅程，一走就是四年。她辛苦地陪伴我们度过求学的日子，直到我们毕业、找到工作。而父亲则留守武汉，独自撑起家，帮哥哥嫂嫂带大孙子，与孙子朝夕相伴。

如今想来，父母的那份牺牲是多么深沉无私。

如今我们也已为人父母、为人祖父母，却深知自己难以像他们那样，舍弃自己的生活，只为成全孩子。

My parents always encouraged us to pursue the highest realms of knowledge.

I remember once, Father returned from a meeting carrying a commemorative briefcase. Smiling, he said,

“Whoever earns a doctorate, this bag will be theirs.”

Father not only knew how to guide—he also knew when to let go.

During my graduate studies, I often felt lost and anxious, writing to him again and again about my worries.

Each time, his replies were calm and steady.

He simply advised me to talk more with my advisor, to communicate more with classmates.

At the time, I thought he was being indifferent.

Only now do I understand—he had already decided not to hold my hand anymore.

He chose to be a listener, quietly telling me through his silence:

My child, the time has come for you to walk on your own.

He taught us the love of learning through his books,

the art of choice through his actions,

and the strength of independence through his silence.

My parents always encouraged us to pursue the highest realms of knowledge.

I remember once, my father came home from a meeting carrying a commemorative briefcase. With a smile, he said, “Whoever earns a Ph.D. will receive this bag.”

My father not only knew how to guide, but also when to let go.

During my graduate studies, I often fell into confusion and anxiety, writing him long letters full of doubt. Each time, his replies were calm and measured — he simply advised me to talk more with my advisor and communicate more with my classmates. At the time, I thought he was too indifferent. Now I understand — he had already decided not to hold my hand any longer.

By choosing to be a listener, he was telling me: My child, the time has come for you to stand on your own.

Through reading, he taught us to seek knowledge; through his actions, he taught us how to choose; through his silence, he taught us independence.

And yet, when I stepped into another chapter of life, my parents once again supported us in their quiet, steadfast way.

After Xiaofan and I got married, we went to the United States for graduate study soon after our child was born. Those were difficult years — juggling studies and raising a baby at the same time. My parents knew our situation and discussed coming to help us. Both were still working then. I overheard my mother say, “I don’t want to go alone.” My father replied, “Then I’ll go.” In truth, he was encouraging her.

So my mother embarked on that long journey, and she stayed for four years. She lovingly stood by us as we finished our studies and began our careers. Meanwhile, my father held down the fort in Wuhan, taking care of my brother’s young son — spending every day with his grandson, their lives intertwined.

Looking back, I realize how profound and selfless my parents’ sacrifices were.

Now that we ourselves are parents and grandparents, we know how hard it is to give ，up one’s own life just to help the next generation. What they gave us was beyond love — it was devotion, quiet and enduring.

父亲——独立与爱的平衡

母亲去世后，父亲一直与小华生活在一起。那已经是十六年前的事了。

记得母亲刚离世的那一年，我儿子回国参加孔子学院少年活动。我希望他能陪外公几天，陪伴一下老人。

然而，父亲所在的单位正组织退休干部上山疗养，他选择了随队而行，没有见外孙。当时我心里有些失落——如果母亲还在，她一定会放下一切见外孙，也一定会满足孩子和女儿的心愿。

但父亲不一样。

他始终是个极为独立的人。

在他的世界里，首先要把自己的人生活好——保持尊严、自理、节制。

“不给孩子添麻烦”是他一生奉行的原则。

在此之后，他才会去体贴和照顾子女的情感。

母亲在世时，总是以孩子为中心，她的快乐几乎完全来自孩子的幸福。

她为家、为子女付出的一切，都是无条件的奉献，没有一点保留。

所以她离开之后，我们每一个孩子心里都充满愧疚——

仿佛无论我们做什么，都无法回报她那份彻底的爱。

而父亲教会我们的，是另一种爱。

一种有界限、有自尊、但同样深沉的爱。

他以自己的方式告诉我们：

爱孩子，并不意味着放弃自己；

善待生活，也是对家人最好的馈赠。

母亲给了我们温情的港湾，

而父亲，则为我们树立了生活的榜样。

在他的身上，我们学会了如何在爱与独立之间找到平衡——

既要懂得付出，也要懂得活出自己的人生。Father — The Balance Between Independence and Love

After my mother passed away, Father lived with Xiaohua. That was sixteen years ago.

I still remember the year she had just left us—my son returned to China to take part in a youth program at the Confucius Institute. I hoped he could spend a few days with his grandfather, to bring some comfort to the old man.

However, Father’s work unit had arranged a retreat for retired cadres in the mountains, and he chose to go along with them instead of seeing his grandson.

At the time, I felt a little disappointed—if Mother were still alive, she would have dropped everything to meet her grandson, to fulfill the wishes of both child and daughter.

But Father was different.

He was, and always had been, deeply independent.

In his world, one must first live one’s own life well—maintaining dignity, self-sufficiency, and restraint.

“Never trouble your children” was the principle he lived by all his life.

Only after ensuring his own steadiness would he consider the emotional needs of his family.

When Mother was alive, her entire world revolved around her children.

Her happiness came almost entirely from ours.

Everything she did for the family and for us was given unconditionally, with no thought of return.

And so, after she was gone, each of us carried a quiet sense of guilt—

as if nothing we could ever do would repay the love she had poured out so completely.

Father, on the other hand, taught us another kind of love—

a love with boundaries, with self-respect, yet just as profound.

In his own way, he showed us:

To love your children does not mean to give up yourself;

To live well is itself a gift to those you love.

Mother gave us a harbor of warmth,

while Father gave us a model for living.

From him, we learned how to find balance between love and independence—

to give freely, yet also to live our own lives with grace and strength.

父亲自幼在私塾读书，打下了深厚的国学与文学根基。早年勤习书法，笔势俊逸洒脱，笔墨间自有一股清气与灵韵。退休后，他将全部心力倾注于国画创作，对艺术的热爱几乎到了痴迷的程度。

Father studied in a traditional private school from a young age, laying a solid foundation in classical Chinese literature and culture.

In his early years, he practiced calligraphy diligently—his strokes elegant and unrestrained, each line carrying a natural grace and spiritual rhythm.

After retirement, he devoted himself entirely to Chinese painting.

His passion for art grew so deep that it became almost an obsession.

他的山水画气韵生动，笔意流畅，如行云流水；花鸟画神采飞扬，栩栩如生。无论所见何景、所历何事，他总能以诗寄情，以画写意。诗与画在他手中融为一体，成为他晚年最纯粹、最自由的精神天地

His landscape paintings were full of vitality, his brushwork flowing with ease like drifting clouds and running water.

His paintings of flowers and birds were spirited and alive, brimming with energy and grace.

Whatever scenery he encountered or experiences he lived through, he could always express them—

his feelings through poetry, his thoughts through painting.

In his hands, poetry and painting merged into one, becoming the purest and freest realm of his later years.

他把自己的作品编排出多本书箱。其中《洞庭秋水》收录了两百余首自作诗词与回忆录，《世涛画选》《艺海诗画集》等，则记录了他数二十多年来在山水、花鸟、书法上的艺术轨迹与精神追求。这些作品既是艺术的结晶，也是他人生经历与文化理想的印证。

He compiled his works into several volumes.

Among them, Dongting Autumn Waters includes more than two hundred of his own poems and personal recollections.

Other collections, such as Shitao’s Selected Paintings and Poetic and Artistic Journeys,

trace over two decades of his creative path in landscapes, flowers and birds, and calligraphy.

These works are not only the crystallization of his artistic expression,

but also a reflection of his life’s journey and his enduring cultural ideals.

年过八旬的他，仍每日伏案作画、沉静于诗墨之间。我常看着他那专注的身影，心中充满敬意与感叹——

一个人能在生命的暮年，仍如此宁静而深情地与艺术为伴，是多么难得的境界。

Even in his eighties, he painted at his desk every day, quietly immersed in the world of poetry and ink.

I often watched his focused silhouette and felt a deep sense of admiration and awe—

how rare it is for a person, in the twilight of life,

to remain so serene and devoted, living each day in gentle companionship with art.

晚年，父亲饱受病痛折磨，长期住在医院里。熬过新冠后，我们立刻飞回国探望他。次年春节，我们又回去，这次没有提前告诉他。

在医院长长的走廊上，他正被小麻搀扶着缓缓行走。我迎面走过去，想试试他是否还认得我。父亲抬头的那一刻，眼中闪过熟悉的光，满脸喜悦——

“红红，你怎么来了？”

我笑着问：“我来你高兴吗？”

他说：“高兴。但我想你待在自己家里。”

In his later years, Father suffered greatly from illness and spent long periods in the hospital.

After he recovered from COVID, we flew back to China at once to visit him.

The following Spring Festival, we returned again—this time without telling him in advance.

In the long corridor of the hospital, he was slowly walking, supported by Xiaoma.

I walked toward him, wanting to see if he would still recognize me.

When he looked up, a familiar light flashed in his eyes, his face full of joy—

“Honghong, you’re here!”

I smiled and asked, “Are you happy to see me?”

He replied, “Yes, I’m happy. But I’d rather you stay at your own home.”

我什么也没再说，因为我懂——他不愿我为他远飞重洋、奔波劳累。他的爱，始终那样克制而深沉。

我陪了他十几天。每天最让他高兴的时刻，是被搀扶着走到走道尽头，从窗口探出头，微风拂面，他轻声呢喃：“有风，有风，有风……”

那一声声“有风”，仿佛在呼吸自由，也仿佛在与天地告别。

风拂过他的脸颊，也带走了他一生的诗意与从容。

I said nothing more, because I understood—he didn’t want me to travel across oceans and exhaust myself for his sake.

His love had always been that way—restrained, quiet, yet profoundly deep.

I stayed with him for more than ten days.

Each day, the moment that brought him the greatest joy was when he was helped to the end of the corridor,

where he could lean toward the window and feel the wind brush against his face.

He would murmur softly, “There’s wind… there’s wind… there’s wind…”

Those words—“there’s wind”—felt like a breath of freedom,

and also like a farewell to the world.

The wind that touched his cheeks seemed to carry away

the poetry and calm that had accompanied him all his life.

那是我们最后的相聚。

从那一刻起，我明白——生命的意义在于它的历程。

它不仅包括你可以意气风发地创作，也包括当你只能静静感受大自然的一缕微风时，依然怀着敬意与热爱。

That was our last time together.

From that moment on, I understood—

the meaning of life lies in its journey.

It is not only found in the days when you can create with passion and vigor,

but also in those quiet moments

when all you can do is feel a gentle breeze from nature—

and still, within your heart, hold reverence and love.