My first recollection of the magic he could bring to Valentine‘s Day came when I was six. For several days， I had been cutting out valentines for my classmates. Each of us was to decorate a“mailbox”and put it onour desk for others to give us cards. That box and its contents ushered in a succession of bittersweet memories of my entrance into a world of popularity contests marked by the number of cards received the teasing about boyfriends or girlfriends and the tender care I gave to the card from the cutest boy in class.
That morning at the breakfast table I found a card and a gift-wrapped package at my chair. The card was signed“Love， Dad”， and the gift was a ring with a small piece of red glass to represent my birthstone， a ruby. There is little difference between red glass and rubies to a child of six， and I remember wearing that ring with a pride that all the cards in the world could not surpass.
As I grew older， the gifts gave way to heart-shaped boxes filled with my favorite chocolates and always included a special card signed“Love， Dad”. In those years， my“thank-yous”became more of a perfunctory response. The cards seemed less important， and I took for granted the valentine that would always be there. Long past the days of having a “mailbox”on my desk， I had placed my hopes and dreams in receiving cards and gifts from“significant others”， and“Love， Dad”just didn’t seem quite enough.
If my father knew then that he had been replaced， he never let it show. If he sensed any disappointment over valentines that didn‘t arrive for me， he just tried that much harder to create a positive atmosphere， giving me an extra hug and doing what he could to make my day a little brighter.
My mailbox eventually had a rural address， and the job of hand- delivering candy and cards was relegated to the U. S. Postal Service. Never in ten years was my father’s package late- nor was it on the Valentine‘s Day eight years ago when I reached into the mailbox to finda card addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting.
It was the kind of card that comes in an inexpensive assortment box sold by a child going door-to-door to try to earn money for a school project. It was the kind of card that you used to get from a grandmother or an aging aunt or， in this case， a dying father. It was the kind of card that put a lump in your throat and tears in your eyes because you knew the person no longer was able to go out and buy a real valentine. It was a card that signaled this would be the last you receive from him.
The card had a photograph of tulips on the outside， and on the inside my mother had printed“Happy Valentine‘s Day”. Beneath it， scrawled in barely legible handwriting， was“Love， Dad”.
His final card remains on my bulletin board today. It’s a reminder of how special fathers can be and how important it had been to me over the years to know that I had a father who continued a tradition of love with a generosity of spirit， simple acts of understanding and an ability to express happiness over the people in his life.
Those things never die， nor does the memory of a man who never stopped being my valentine.
父爱永远不停歇，即使在生命的最后一刻。
参考翻译（佚名）
小时候，每逢过传统节日时，我们家总会把精美别致的节日餐安排在橄榄球赛前后。中场休息时，父亲会谈一些愉快的事情，然后尽可能地多吃些东西。圣诞节时他会来一两杯小酒以示庆贺，还会打上他那冬青叶状的领结。但只有情人节那天才是他真正光彩照人的时候。
我不知道是由于二月里工作变得清闲了，还是因为橄榄球赛季过去了，但是情人节成了父亲对生命中那些重要的人表达爱意的时候。这么多年来，我一直天真地把他当成我的“情人节情人”。
我记得他最早赋予我情人节魅力是在我六岁那年。一连好多天，我都在忙着为小朋友们做情人节礼物。我们每个人都会装饰出一个“邮箱”，然后放在自己的书桌上，别人就可以投贺卡进去了。那个盒子和里面所收到的东西引发了我一连串亦苦亦甜的回忆，我那时进入了一场人缘大赛，结果由收到贺卡的数量而定。回忆中还有我对男女朋友的调侃和我对班里最聪明男孩所送贺卡的细心呵护。
情人节早上吃早餐时，我发现我的座位上有张贺卡，椅子上放了份儿礼物。卡片上写着“爱你，爸爸”，打开包装纸，礼物则是枚戒指，上面镶着一小块红玻璃，这象征着我的诞生石--红宝石。对于一个六岁的孩子来说，红玻璃和红宝石并无多大区别。我还记得我戴着那枚戒指时得意扬扬的样子，觉得世界上再多的贺卡都超越不了这个。
等我渐渐长大，礼物变成了心形的盒子，里面装满了我最爱的巧克力，通常还会有张特别的贺卡，上面写道：“爱你，爸爸”。那些年里我说声“谢谢您”都是那么牵强敷衍，贺卡对我不再那么重要了，而我想当然地以为情人节贺卡会一直有的。将“邮箱”放在书桌上等候贺卡的年代已一去不复返了，我寄希望于收到某个“其他重要的人”所送的贺卡和礼物，光有爸爸的“爱你，爸爸”远远不够。
即使爸爸知道他已被取代了，他也从未流露过任何情绪。如果他感觉到了我因为没有收到情人节礼物而失望，他会尽力营造一种积极的氛围，多给我一个拥抱或尽他所能让我那一天过得开心些。
我的邮箱终于有了个乡下地址，亲手赠送糖果和贺卡的工作交由美国邮政局做了。之后的十年，父亲的包裹从未迟到过，哪怕是八年前也没有，那天情人节我走到邮箱取出了贺卡，发现那上面是母亲的笔迹。
是那种小孩子为筹集资金而挨家挨户推销的贺卡，整盒出售特别便宜。那是种你过去常常从祖母或上了年纪的阿姨那儿收到的贺卡，可是这次的贺卡竟来自于一个将不久于人世的父亲之手。这是种会让你哽咽欲泣、饱含泪水的贺卡，因为收到它你就明白这个人再也无法出门为你买张儿真正的贺卡了。它昭示着这将是你最后一次收到他的贺卡了。
卡片正面是一束郁金香图片，母亲在里面用印刷体写道：“情人节快乐”，这行字下面父亲歪歪扭扭地写着“爱你，爸爸”，字迹几乎无法辨认。
今天，他最后送的这张贺卡依然贴在我的告示板上。它提醒我父亲是多么非凡、耐人寻味。多年来，父亲一直保持以宽大的胸怀、质朴的行动向亲人表达祝福，延续着这一爱的传统，这一切对我来说是多么重要。
这些事情永远也不会消失，我的情人节情人也会长存于我的记忆里。
More Than One Way to the Square 通向广场的路不止一条AnonymousWe were standing at the top of a church tower. My father had brought me to this spot in a small Italian town not far from our home in Rome. I wondered why.
“Look down， Elsa，”father said. I gathered all my courage and looked down. I saw the square in the center of the village. And I saw the crisscross of twisting， turning streets leading to the square.
“See， my dear，”father said gently，“there is more than one way to the square. Life is like that. If you can‘t get to the place where you want to go by one road， try another.”
Now I understood why I was there. Earlier that day I had begged my mother to do something about the awful lunches that were served at school. But she refused because she could not believe the lunches were as bad as I said.
When I turned to father for help， he would not interfere. Instead， hebrought me to this high tower to give me a lesson. By the time we reached home， I had a plan.
At school the next day， I secretly poured my luncheon soup into a bottle and brought it home. Then I talked the cook into serving it to mother at dinner. The plan worked perfectly. She swallowed one spoonful and sputtered，“the cook must have gone mad！”Quickly I told what I had done， and mother stated firmly that she would take up the matter of lunches at school the next day！
In the years that followed， I often remembered the lesson father taught me. I knew where I wanted to go in life. I wanted to be a fashion designer. And on the way to my first small success， I found the road blocked. What could I do？ Accept the roadblock and fail？ Or use imagination and wits to find another road to my goal？
