Father's Day, Plain and Simple

When I look at pictures and speak with my mom's side of the family, I think I look identical to her and react in a headstrong and emotional way as she once did; sometimes I'm fascinated with fashion and suspect that my intuition comes from my mom.

But my dad and I?
He has a quiet nobility that expounds his intelligence and his respect for others.
He was sharing a Chinese poem with me from a thousand years ago. At that moment, I realized I wished I had taken Chinese more seriously; I wished I could interpret Chinese better and communicate with my dad more easily. For he is the reason why I have this bipolar need to learn, to understand, and to explore. His absorption of words is what gave me the genes to want to absorb words, to play with words, to dissect but connect.

After explaining the poem, his face sagged slightly in exhaustion, outright lamenting that he wished he had time to appreciate and read these poems. Right then, it hit me. He's the reason why I want to become a writer. I don't think he understands that I have the same yearning as him, that it's ironic that he suggests other occupations for me when he, himself, can understand my need for being who I am better than anyone else. That if I had the power to do so, I would create extra time for him so that he wouldn't look like he had lost that part of himself when he gave into who he is now.

As a writer, exchanging or sharing writing and books is in itself a sacred ritual. My dad and I pinky promised we'd read each other's books or pieces of writing...except he psyched me out. -.- HOW CAN YOU PSYCHE YOUR OWN DAUGHTER OUT ON A PINKY PROMISE?!