I remember my mother as a strong woman. She came to America when she was 12—old enough to remember her language, she achieved scores and grades high enough to be admitted to Duke University. With a degree in computer science, she finally became the manager of a company in New York. My mother could give fluent speeches, say “wolves” correctly.

It was my mother who always stressed the importance of language. From the time I was born, I was read to. I would fall asleep to the sounds of my parents’ voices, whether it was my dad’s softly accented, or my mother’s clear English. The flow of language was unbroken, and whether in Chinese or English, the stream of communication flowed through our house.

One October morning in sixth grade, after my mother had left to catch the train to the city, I left the house for the bus stop. I was surprised when I saw our car, the door hanging open. As I drew closer, I saw my mother lying on the ground.

In the hospital, it was hard to believe that the lady who lay before me was my mom. My mother could not remember my name. As the leaves changed colors, it became clear that the stroke had created a wall between my mothers mind and mouth: her mind was not any less dear, but the words she spoke were not what she meant.

The battle my mother faced taught me the importance of language. Without it, identity does not exist; relationships cannot be formed; stories cannot be told; directions cannot be given, and knowing anything about anyone is impossible. Without language, communication cannot take place. Without language, one cannot express the beauty of a sunset or the kindness of a stranger. The world would pass us by in silence.

“Have you checked the oil in the car?” my father used to say to me, his version of “Hello, hope you are well.” Sometimes our phone calls would begin with an inquiry about the oil and end with an inquiry about the oil, with not a lot in between.

Fathers have a lot of love to give, but it’s often supplied through the medium of practical advice. The affectionate phrase “You made my life better from the moment you were born” may be rarely heard, but there is the more common “I’ll hold the ladder while you get the leaves off the roof.”

Why can’t we fathers just say “I love you” or “It’s great to see you” ? The point is: That’ s exactly what we are saying. You just have to translate from the language that is Fatherlish. Listen closely enough and the phrase “I love you” can be heard in the lengthier “I could come around Saturday and replace the silicon seal around the base of your toilet because I reckon that thing is getting really smelly.”

When I was 17, I went on my first road trip. My father stood on the corner in the predawn of a cold morning to bid us farewell. “Highways are dangerous,” he said, “so don’t try overtaking anything faster than a horse and buggy. And take a break every two hours. And every time you stop for gas, you really should check the oil.” At the time we thought his speech was funny and would chant “horse-and-buggy” every time I floored the accelerator.

Dad’s long gone now. But after all these years, I realize that had I owned a copy of the Fatherlish-to-English dictionary, I’d have understood that the speech my friend and I so casually mocked was simply Dad’s attempt at affection.

The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing as Melinda sits in the rose garden of the nursing home. She is recalling old times as she waits for her family’s arrival. The nursing home has been Melinda’s new settlement ever since Thomas passed away a week ago. Thomas had fought a long and hard battle against lung cancer for three years. Unfortunately, he has broken the promise that he and Melinda had made: to be with each other for every birthday. Melinda knew this was unrealistic(不现实的) but agreed to the promise for Thomas’s sake.

“Thomas, you are completely a dreamer!” Melinda shouted to Thomas as he dragged on about living on an island with his beautiful wife. That’s what she loved about him most - he had a vivid imagination. They got married at age eighteen and began having children right away. Mary came within the year, followed by Thomas Benjamin II, Lilly- Ann, and Joseph “Little Joey” George. The family lived an exultant life filled with laughter and love.

“Mom! ” Lilly shouted, but it really sounded like a howl. Melinda had lost herself in thinking about the life she had shared with her late husband. Lilly pushed her down the long dark halls of the nursing home until they arrived at the recreational room.

When the doors opened, Melinda put her hand over her mouth and was completely speechless. The room was crowded with the people nearest and dearest to her and the warmth and love was felt instantly. The night went on; stories and cocktails were shared and everything was perfect.

However, when Melinda caught a moment to herself she looked around at her family. With a smile on her face, she raised her Manhattan and called out for a toast. “This one is for you, Thomas, though you are not here.”