I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tapdancing（踢踏舞） lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearly recital1（朗诵）. 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 standing2 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 bouquets4（花束，宴会） that accompanied all the milestones5 in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment6. I enjoyed them, but was flustered7 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. Inevitably8 he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently9 an offering of love he could not verbalize（累赘，唠叨） that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him--an act that undoubtedly10 perpetuated11 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 misery12 by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet3 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, recitals13, awards, graduations--were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw14 between pleasure and embarrassment.
When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence15 were over. I was embarking16 on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized17 his pride, and my triumph. They evoked18 only great pleasure.
Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety19 red roses for birthdays. Seasonal20 flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated21 the births of my children and the move to our first house.
As my fortunes grew, my father's waned22, 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 coffin23 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!
