She nodded at that logic, and said, "Thank you." Choking on the cry rising in her throat, she wiped a hand over her teary eyes. "I will remember that, and thank, you again for letting me sit and... remember my father ..." she trailed off. Coughing once, she continued, "He was my hero." She stood, giving him a watery but grateful smile.
The man returned her smile. Turning, she ambled home, not looking back. The man watched her and whispered, 'Tm proud of you, honey,,, A car drove past the caf^ and as it moved beyond the table with the man, he vanished, leaving only the cigar stump smoldering in the ashtray. The embers burned, forcing smoke to curl upward to the heavens.
Arriving at her apartment, she tossed her sketchbook and keys on the side table. A sudden urge to read enveloped her. She strolled to her bookcase and rummaged through her father's collection. As she pulled one from the shelf, a slip of paper drifted to the floor. Frowning, she picked it up, blinking in shock. It Vvas a picture of the man she had just spoken to. He was dressed in his suit and his lanky form was draped in a chair with a cigar entwined in his hand, a cocky smirk curled on his lips. Flipping the picture over she squinted to make out the faded loopy scrawl. It read: Bryan Larson, 1979. Under that inscription she read: Memories are the only connection we have to the past …Always remember where you came from.
Gazing at the bookcase, her dark brown eyes wide and mouth gaping, she whispered in astonishment, "Daddy?" Feeling a warm presence engulf her, tangy cigar smoke tickling her senses, she smiled. Her voice a whisper in the empty apartment, she promised, "I'll always remember …HI always remember."
英语翻译 不要翻译器的 谢谢 急用!
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