Passing through the Atlanta airport one morning, I caught one of those trains that take travelers from the main terminal to their boarding gates. Free, sterile and impersonal, the trains run back and forth all day long. Not many people consider them fun, but on this Saturday I heard laughter. At the front of the first car – looking out the window at the track that lay ahead – were a man and his son.
Daddy just didn’t know how to show love. It was Mom who held the family together. He just went to work every day and came home; she’d have a list of sins we’d committed and he’d scold us about them. Once when I stole a candy bar, he made me take it back and tell the man I stole it and that I’d pay for it. But it was Mom who understood I was just a kid.
In 1989 an 8.2 earthquake almost flattened America, killing over 30,000 people in less than four minutes. In the midst of utter devastation and chaos, a father left his wife safely at home and rushed to the school where his son was supposed to be, only to discover that the building was as flat as a pancake. After the unforgettably initial shock, he remembered the promise he had made to his son: "No matter what, I’ll always be there for you!" And tears began to fill his eyes.
Dear World: My son starts school today. It's going to be strange and new to him for a while, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now, he's been king of the roost. He's been boss of the backyard. I have always been around to repair his wounds, and to make him calm. But now--things are going to be different. This morning, he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand and start on his great adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow.
今天是你走脱这世界的四周年！朋友，我们这次拿什么来纪念你？前两次的用香花感伤的围上你的照片，抑住嗓子底下叹息和悲哽，朋友和朋友无聊的对望着，完成一种纪念的形式，俨然是愚蠢的失败。因为那时那种近于伤感，而又不够宗教庄严的举动，除却点明了你和我们中间的距离，生和死的间隔外，实在没有别的成效；几乎完全不能达到任何真实纪念的意义。
自从我们搬到郊外以来，天气渐渐清凉了。那短篱边牵延着的毛豆叶子，已露出枯黄的颜色来，白色的小野菊，一丛丛由草堆里攒出头来，还有小朵的黄花在凉劲的秋风中抖颤，这一些景象，最容易勾起人们的秋思，况且身在异国呢！低声吟着“帘卷西风，人比黄花瘦”之句，这个小小的灵宫，是弥漫了怅惘的情绪。
十一月十九日我们的好朋友，许多人都爱戴的新诗人，徐志摩突兀的，不可信的，残酷的，在飞机上遇险而死去。这消息在二十日的早上像一根针刺触到许多朋友的心上，顿使那一早的天墨一般地昏黑，哀恸的咽哽锁住每一个人的嗓子。志摩……死……谁曾将这两个句子联在一处想过！他是那样活泼的一个人，那样刚刚站在壮年的顶峰上的一个人。朋友们常常惊讶他的活动，他那像小孩般的精神和认真，谁又会想到他死？