My Father

An aged man is sitting at his desk, a cup of tea in front of him, the lamp reflected on his thick glasses, the light shinning on his thin-haired head: he is writing with all his heart. Sometimes he stops, thinks for a while and then goes on. As time goes by, as the clock ticks, the sound of his pen running rapidly on the paper becomes clearer and clearer, in the entirely silent midnight.　　The man is my father, a star maths teacher. When I was little, I felt asleep with this comforting sound, feeling secure at the thoughts that my father was by my side. For hundreds of times I told myself to stay up to find out when the sound would end, but I've never succeeded. "Shing-shing", Father was writing; "Tick-tick", the clock was going, while my eyelids were closing. The next morning, a warm hand would pat me and a tender voice would turn up by my ears. "Wake up!" Then I would wake up, wondering how I fell asleep, and when the sound ended last night. That remained a mystery to me through my childhood.　　"Tick-tick" the clock is going; "Shing-shing" the pen is running. Time goes by and never turns back again. I am growing up. The students surrounding my father turn from my elder brothers and sisters, to my schoolmates of my age, now to my younger brothers and sisters. Father teaches year by year, keeps devoting all he has to his students, to his career, to his beloved maths. Hair thinned, glasses thickened, body bent, face wrinkled, father is just like a candle that is to burn out. Does he feel sorry? No! Never did and never will! It seems that he has an endless ardor to maths, and he never regrets having chosen to be a teacher, the most honorable career in the world.　　"Tick-tick" the clock is going; "Shing-shing" the pen is running. Time flows by and never gives a remark. During my hard days, when I felt tired and wanted to laze, when I stopped working and turned off my lamp, at that moment, the light of my father's lamp went silently through the windows, shinning on my desk, shinning up my mind; the sound "Shing-shing" came into my ears, reminding me of my duty. Then I would be ashamed of my blameful thoughts and deeds, and pick up my pen, turn on the lamp again.　　"Tick-tick" the clock is going; "Shing-shing" the pen is running. Time flies by and never ends. Now I am a college student, making grade at university, writing this article at dormitory, far away from my father in distance. But father will never be far away from me. Wherever I go, whatever I do, there is only one thing I am sure about: my father will keep his eyes on me, his beloved daughter, the little baby in his arms, the sleepy child in the bed beside him, the grown girl working at her own desk with him.　　They say time can do anything, can change anything. I don't believe it. Time has carve my father's figure in my heart, but time can never erase it. When all my memories, sweet or bitter, happy or sad, when all of them fade away, the image of my father will remain, the sound will remain, the love, will do remain.　　God has been so good, blessing me with my father, the best man of the world in my eyes. I love you, Father.