星期六糖果

Lollipops fanned out in a rainbow of colors. Gum so chock-full of sugar that the crystals actually sparkled on the surface. Chocolate bars wrapped in shiny paper， reflecting the store’s fluorescent lights.

And most important of all： my dad.

This is how I remember the Saturdays of my childhood. On that glorious day of the week， Dad took me out for our “Saturday treat”. I could buy whatever I wanted， as long as it didn’t cost more than a candy bar.

Though I had three siblings， my early “Saturday treat” memories featured just my dad and me. My older siblings had outgrown the tradition， and my younger brother was too little.

On our special day， Dad and I sometimes drove to the store. But in good weather， we would walk to our town’s shopping district and chat along the way. Dad would point out interesting sights， like the ants on the sidewalk or a fallen tree branch. We’d stop at our halfway resting spot—a short wall of cinder blocks， just the right size for a kindergartner to perch and dangle her legs.

Soon my younger brother was old enough for candy and began to join us on our trips. And Saturdays changed.

My brother and I thrived on pestering one another. Dad became part referee， part chauffeur. My brother’s predictable purchase—a grape Charms lollipop—made me roll my eyes. My goal became locating a more delectable item than his.

Time passed and I entered junior high. One Saturday afternoon， my younger brother and I sat under the television’s spell. My dad popped into the room. “I’m going to run some errands，” he said. “Does anyone want a Saturday treat？”

We pulled our gazes from the flickering screen. “Yeah. Can you get me a grape Charms？” asked my brother.“I’ll take a Three Musketeers bar.” Dad waited. Neither of us budged. The features on his face shifted. Then he turned and left. Soon， the Saturday treat tradition ended.

In the rush of junior high， and then high school， I didn’t mourn my lost candy bars. I had better things to do， or I thought so.

Several years later， I teetered on the edge of adulthood. College loomed， only months away. My nerves jangled. Nostalgia washed over me at the slightest provocation. I’d catch sight of the green living room couch and feel compelled to appreciate it. How had I never noticed that before？ I fell in love with every square inch of my house. I tried not to think about leaving the people who dwelled inside.

On a spring Saturday， I found myself in the dining room with my dad， just the two of us. I watched him as he read the paper.

Growing up in a house packed with people， I rarely had Dad with me. In addition， Dad had a long commute to work， so he left bright and early. He arrived home for dinner， but shortly thereafter the younger children would be in bed， the older ones deep into their homework.

When did we ever have time to be with our dad？ And then it hit me： Saturday treats.

I sat up straight in my chair. “Hey Dad，” I said. He looked up from the newspaper. “Do you want to get a Saturday treat？” He grinned. We headed out to the garage and grabbed our bicycles. Now that I was no longer a kindergartner with little stamina， we could hit the bike trail and head into the neighboring town for a yummy confection.

As we pedaled， we chatted. Well， actually， I did most of the chatting. Instead of anthills and fallen tree branches， I spoke of friends and school， hopes and fears.

Our tires whirred， our pedals clicked. Dad said little. But his silence was not passive. It hummed with energy. This， I realized， was how he had nurtured me for years. He was listening to every word I said.

One thought crystallized in my head that afternoon. I mattered. To my dad， I would always be someone worth listening to. I don’t remember getting to the store. I don’t remember what I bought. But I do remember the peace and security I felt knowing that my dad would always be there for me—whether next to me on his bicycle， cheering me on through college from across the country， or tucked safely inside my heart. He cared. He loved me unconditionally. What sweeter confection could there ever be？

五彩缤纷的棒棒糖成扇形陈列着；泡泡糖里含有许许多多的糖，糖面上都有糖晶在闪闪发亮；巧克力块的包装纸也是亮闪闪的，反射着商店里的荧光。

而这一切中最重要的，是我的爸爸。

在我的印象中，孩童时期的星期六就是这样的。每周的这一天我都很高兴，因为爸爸会带我出去享受我们的“星期六糖果”。我可以买任何我想要的东西，只要不贵于一根糖果棒就行了。

虽然我有三个兄弟姐妹，但我记得我小时候的“星期六糖果”购买活动只有我和爸爸。哥哥姐姐已经长大了，对这种事已经没有了兴趣，而弟弟还太小。

在那个特殊的日子里，我和爸爸有时开车去商店，但天气好的话，我们就会边聊天边走着去镇上的购物区。一路上，爸爸经常会指些有趣的景致给我看，比如人行道上的蚂蚁或掉下的树枝。我们常常中途停下，在一堵用煤渣砖砌成的矮墙上休息，那矮墙正适合上幼儿园的儿童坐上去摇晃着双腿。

不久，我的弟弟长大了，也要吃糖果，于是开始加入到我们的行列中来。而星期六也变得不一样了。

我和弟弟总是不厌其烦地互相打闹。爸爸又做调解人，又做司机。弟弟提出要买葡萄味“魔力”棒棒糖，这让我转起眼珠，想着要买一样比它更美味的东西。

时间流逝，我上初中了。一个星期六的下午，我和弟弟正入迷地看着电视。爸爸突然走进屋来。“我要出去办点事。”他说，“有人想要星期六糖果吗？”

我们从闪烁的荧屏上收回视线。“嗯，你能给我带一支葡萄味‘魔力’棒棒糖吗？”弟弟问。“我要一支‘三个火’糖果棒。”爸爸等着，我们谁也没动。他脸上的表情变了，接着转身离去。不久后，星期六买糖果的习惯没了。

初中生活及随后的高中生活匆匆忙忙，我并没因为少了糖果棒而难过。我还有更有趣的事情可做。或者说，我是这么想的。

几年后，我渐渐步入成年。只剩几个月就要进入大学了，我心烦意乱。怀旧的情绪动不动就袭上心头。看到起居室里的绿色沙发，我觉得一定要珍惜它。我以前怎么没注意到呢？我爱上了房子里的每一个地方。我努力不让自己去想我就要离开住在里面的人了。

春天里的一个星期六，我发现自己和爸爸一起在餐厅里，只有我们两个人。他看着报纸，我看着他。

在一个大家庭里长大，我几乎很少跟爸爸单独呆过。而且，爸爸上班路程远，所以大清早就出门了。他回来吃晚饭，但是晚饭后不久，年纪小点的孩子们就上床睡觉了，大点的孩子都在埋头做作业。

我们是什么时候有时间和爸爸在一起的呢？我想起来了，是星期六买糖果的时候。

我在椅子上坐直。“嗨，爸爸。”我说。他抬头看我。“想去买星期六糖果吗？”他咧嘴笑了。我们前往车库，各自骑上一辆自行车。我已不再是没有耐力的幼儿园小朋友了，所以我们可以骑自行车去邻镇买美味的甜食。

我们一边骑车，一边闲聊。嗯，实际上，多数时候是我在说话。我谈及的不是蚁丘或掉下的树枝，而是朋友、学校、希望和忧虑。

我们的轮子呼呼转，脚踏板咔嗒作响。爸爸不怎么说话，但他并不是消极的沉默。他不断嗯嗯地回应着，声音低沉而有力。我意识到，多年来他就是这么养育我的。他在听着我所说的每一句话。

那天下午，我脑海中有了一个明确的想法：我很重要。对爸爸来说，我永远是一个值得他去倾听的人。我已不记得那天何时到的商店，也不记得买了什么，但牢牢记得那份平和及安宁感。我知道，爸爸会一直在我的身边——不管是和我并排骑着自行车，还是鼓励我横跨大半个国家去念完大学，抑或牢牢地驻扎在我的心里。他关心我，无条件地爱我。还有什么比这更甜的甜食呢？