I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tapdancing lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearlyrecital. As an excited member of the beginners' chorus line, I was aware of my lowly status.

So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long-stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.

Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but was flustered by the extravagance.

Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.

His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed--or the new ice skates I wanted.

Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently an offering of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him--an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.

Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers, bigger than any before.

I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that.

As the years passed, other occasions--birthdays, recitals, awards, graduations--were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw between pleasure and embarrassment.

When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence were over. I was embarking on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized his pride, and my triumph. They evoked only great pleasure.

Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety red roses for birthdays. Seasonal flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated the births of my children and the move to our first house.

As my fortunes grew, my father's waned, but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. Without embarrassment, I covered his coffin with the largest, reddest roses I could find.

Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.

Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband was playing golf, and my two daughters were away. My 13-year-old son, Matt, had run out earlier with a "see you later," never mentioning my birthday. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. "Forgot my key," he said, shrugging. "Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like flowers, Mum." He pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.

"Oh, Matt," I cried, hugging him hard. "I love flowers!"

父亲第一次给我送花是在我九岁那年。当时，我加入学校踢踏舞班才学了六个月，正逢学校举办一年一度的演出。我只能编入新学员合唱队，却依然兴致勃勃。不过我清楚自己只是个不起眼的小角色。

可演出一结束，我竟与主舞的演员一起给喊到前台，双手捧着一束枝繁叶茂的红玫瑰。我至今还感觉得到自己站在舞台上，双颊绯红，越过绚丽的脚灯光线向下张望，看见的竟是父亲的笑脸，他一面使劲地鼓掌，一面快活地笑着。

这束鲜花是第一束，往后，每逢我人生一个里程碑，父亲都要送我一大束鲜花。可收到那些鲜花，我的心情总是很矛盾：既高兴，又有些不自在。我喜爱鲜花，可又为这种奢侈而不安。

父亲却从不会觉得不安，他做什么事都大方得很。你若让他去糕点铺买一块蛋糕，他定会买来三块。一次，母亲对他说我需要一条新舞裙，他竟买回一打。

他这么做常常使我们没有钱再去添置其它更需要的东西。那次他买回一打舞裙后，就再也没钱去买我真正急需的冬大衣和我一直向往的新溜冰鞋。

有时我会为这些事跟父亲赌气，但时间都不会长。每次他必定会给我买些礼物与我和好。这礼物显然传达着他不善用言辞表达的爱。这时我便会搂住父亲，吻他----这亲昵的行为无疑会使他再度大方。

后来迎来了我16岁生日，可我并不快活。我长得胖，那时还没有男朋友。好心的父母为我准备了个生日晚会，可这更让我觉得难受。我走进餐厅，看见餐桌上生日蛋糕旁边，摆着很大一束鲜花，比以往的都要大。

我真想找个地缝钻进去，这下谁都会以为我没有男朋友送花，只好由父亲来送了。16岁该是最甜蜜的，我却只想哭。或许当时我的确哭了，但我最好的朋友菲利斯在我耳边小声说："嘿，你有这样的父亲可真幸运。

随着光阴流逝，许多特别的日子，像生日、演出、获奖、毕业都会伴有父亲的鲜花。我的心情也依然在高兴与不自在之间摇摆不定。

可我到大学毕业时，那种矛盾的心情消失了。我开始了新的工作，也订了婚。父亲的鲜花代表了他的骄傲、我的胜利。它们带来的只有极大的喜悦。

后来每逢感恩节我们都会收到父亲的一捧黄灿灿的菊花；圣诞节会有一大束粉红的一品红；复活节是洁白的百合花；生日里会有天鹅绒般的红玫瑰；孩子出世或逢乔迁之喜，父亲会送来那个季节里盛开的许多种鲜花扎成的花束。

随着我不断功成名就，父亲却日渐衰老，但他依然坚持给我送花，直到他70岁生日的前几个月，因心脏病发作而瘁然逝去。我在他的棺木上铺满了我所能寻得的最红最艳最大的玫瑰花，而且，没有一丝不自在。

往后的十二年中，我常常有一股冲动，想去买一大束鲜花装点起居室，可始终没去。我知道，即便买来，花已不是从前的花了。

后来有一天我生日，我听见门铃响了。那天，我本来很沮丧，因为只有我一人呆在家中。丈夫打高尔夫球去了，两个女儿出远门了，13岁的儿子马特也走得格外早，只道了声"再见"，只字未提我的生日。所以我开门看见马特胖胖的身体站在门边，有几分惊讶，他耸耸肩，说道："忘带钥匙了，也忘了今天是你生日，嗯，我希望你喜欢鲜花，妈妈。"说着，他从背后抽出一束雏菊。

"哦，马特，"我大叫一声，紧紧搂住他，"我爱鲜花。"
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