紀實散文《和父親的第一張合影》｜Literary Memoir：My First Photograph with My Father

中文原文

和父親的第一張合影

文／泰華

2018年5月　寫於加拿大

記憶裡，這是我和父親的第一張合影；也是那一天，我留下了人生中的第一張正式單人照。

那年，我十一歲，讀小學五年級，大概是為了辦理畢業證才去照相的。

那是上世紀七十年代，一段遙遠得彷彿泛著淡黃色光暈的歲月。雖然家裡並不富裕，日子過得清苦，卻有父母無微不至的呵護，生活溫馨而安穩。

我們來到城裡唯一的一家照相館。攝影師掀開蒙著黑布的照相機，手裡握著快門線，慢慢數著：「一、二、三。」

鎂光燈一閃，一個珍貴的瞬間，就這樣被永遠定格。

那個年代，拍完照片並不能立刻看到，還要耐心等待好幾天才能取件。拿到照片後，我反覆端詳照片裡的自己，總覺得那像一個既熟悉又陌生的孩子。

一縷不安分的頭髮微微翹起，像少年悸動的心；平靜的目光望向遠方，彷彿正在思索著天邊的夢。那是一個充滿幻想的童年。

照片裡的父親，正值壯年。

他身姿挺拔，氣宇軒昂，神采飛揚，眉宇間透著自信與從容。在那時的我眼中，他是那樣高大、那樣可靠，彷彿歲月永遠不會在他的身上留下痕跡。他用自己的生命，詮釋了我心中「父親」最偉岸的模樣。

關於這張照片，還有一段令人難忘的小插曲。

父親故意把洗好的合影剪成兩半，拿給奶奶看，一本正經地說：

「我和兒子鬧掰了。」

奶奶愣了一下，半信半疑地責備父親：

「你怎麼還像個孩子！」

父親只是神祕地笑著，一句話也不說，彷彿一下子又回到了自己的童年。

直到奶奶明白過來，也忍不住笑了。

那一刻，笑聲裡不只是玩笑，更是一家人最自然、最溫暖的幸福。

然而，若干年後，命運真的把我帶到了萬里之外的異鄉。

親情始終牽動著我的心。

每個星期，我都會和父親視訊通話，看著他一年一年慢慢變老，腳步越來越緩，精神也大不如前，我的心裡總有說不出的酸楚。

每一年，我和兒子都會跨越大半個地球，回去探望他。

如今，再次凝望這張半個世紀前的合影，我看見的不只是那個十一歲的少年，也看見了一位正值盛年的父親。

照片定格了那一刻的容顏，卻留不住歲月的腳步。

今天，父親已步入晚年。

年邁的他，就像風中的一盞燭火，雖然光芒漸漸微弱，卻始終照亮著我生命最深處的記憶。

而這張泛黃的合影，也早已不只是一張照片。

它收藏著一個少年的童年，一位父親的盛年，一位奶奶的笑容，更收藏著一個家庭最平凡、也最珍貴的幸福。

歲月帶走了青春，改變了容顏，卻帶不走父親深沉的愛。

每一次凝望這張照片，都像是與半個世紀前的父親，再一次相逢。

English Version 英文版（ChatGPT）

My First Photograph with My Father

By Taihua

Written in Canada

May 2018

As far as I can remember, this was the first photograph my father and I ever took together. On that same day, I also had my very first formal portrait taken.

I was eleven years old, in the fifth grade. I believe the photographs were needed for my elementary school graduation records.

It was sometime in the 1970s—a time that now feels unimaginably distant.

Life was simple, and our family was far from wealthy. Yet under the loving care of my parents, my childhood was filled with warmth, security, and quiet happiness.

There was only one photo studio in our town.

The photographer disappeared beneath the black cloth covering his large camera, held the shutter release in his hand, and slowly counted,

“One… two… three…”

A bright flash lit the room.

In that brief instant, a moment of our lives was quietly preserved forever.

In those days, photographs were never ready immediately. We waited several days before returning to collect them.

When I finally held my portrait in my hands, I stared at it again and again.

The boy in the picture looked strangely familiar, yet somehow like someone I had never met before.

A stubborn lock of hair stood up as if reflecting the restless dreams of childhood.

My eyes looked calm, quietly searching beyond the camera, as though already wondering what lay beyond the distant horizon.

That was the world of an eleven-year-old boy.

Beside me stood my father, still in the prime of his life.

He stood tall and confident, full of energy and quiet dignity.

At that age, I simply believed fathers never grew old.

To me, he represented strength itself—the safest place in the world.

That photograph also carried one of my favorite family stories.

After the pictures were developed, my father deliberately cut one of our portraits into two pieces.

He showed one half to my grandmother and said with a perfectly serious face,

“My son and I have had a falling-out.”

My grandmother was startled.

Half believing him, she scolded him,

“How can you still behave like a child?”

My father only smiled without saying a word.

For a moment, it seemed as though he had become a little boy again.

When my grandmother finally realized he was joking, she laughed with relief.

Looking back, that laughter may have been the happiest sound in our home.

Years later, life carried me thousands of miles away to another country.

Distance never weakened the bond between my father and me.

Every week, we speak through video calls.

With each passing year, I watch him grow older.

His steps have become slower.

His movements more careful.

His strength no longer what it once was.

Every conversation reminds me how precious time has become.

Each year, my son and I travel across half the world to visit him.

Now, whenever I look again at that photograph taken more than half a century ago, I see far more than an eleven-year-old boy.

I see a father in the fullness of his strength.

I see the smile of my grandmother.

I see an ordinary family whose greatest treasure was simply being together.

A photograph can preserve a face.

It cannot stop time.

My father’s hair has turned gray.

His body has grown frail.

Yet the love he gave our family has never faded.

Today, that old photograph has become much more than a picture.

It is a doorway back to childhood.

A reminder of a father’s quiet love.

And whenever I hold it in my hands, it feels as though I am meeting my father once again—across the distance of fifty years.