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  • Writer's pictureegradcliff

A Father's Day Post

Happy Father’s Day to my lovely dad:

In​ ​my​ ​closet,​ ​there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​shelf.​ ​​ ​On​ ​the​ ​shelf,​ ​there​ ​is​ ​a​ ​box.​ ​​ ​It’s​ ​faintly​ ​dusty​ ​from​ ​ages of​ ​neglect,​ ​and​ ​faded​ ​to​ ​a​ ​pale,​ ​blotchy​ ​pink​ ​from​ ​the​ ​original​ ​blazing​ ​red.​ ​​ ​The​ ​sides​ ​are​ ​bowed outwards,​ ​too​ ​small​ ​to​ ​comfortably​ ​hold​ ​the​ ​load​ ​that​ ​it​ ​contains,​ ​but​ ​contain​ ​it​ ​it​ ​does;​ ​in​ ​this box,​ ​wedged​ ​and​ ​bent​ ​into​ ​the​ ​too-small​ ​cardboard​ ​enclosure,​ ​are​ ​my​ ​notebooks.​ ​​ ​

These notebooks​ ​are​ ​old,​ ​the​ ​newest being​ ​from​ ​when​ ​I​ ​was​ ​in​ ​fifth​ ​grade,​ ​and​ ​despite​ ​the​ ​period​ ​of time​ ​that​ ​they​ ​span​ ​being​ ​relatively​ ​small,​ ​it​ ​encompasses​ ​some​ ​of​ ​the​ ​most​ ​important​ ​years​ ​of my​ ​formative​ ​life.​ ​​ ​From​ ​shortly​ ​after​ ​the​ ​time​ ​I​ ​could​ ​talk​ ​to​ ​the​ ​end​ ​of​ ​my​ ​primary​ ​school experience,​ ​these​ ​diaries​ ​host​ ​some​ ​of​ ​my​ ​earliest​ ​creativity. It’s​ ​not​ ​altogether​ ​surprising​ ​to​ ​me​ ​that​ ​some​ ​of​ ​my​ ​first​ ​memories​ ​include​ ​storytelling.​ ​​ ​Even before​ ​I​ ​could​ ​write,​ ​I​ ​can​ ​clearly​ ​recall​ ​sitting​ ​in​ ​the​ ​big​ ​yellow​ ​chair​ ​in​ ​the​ ​front​ ​room, fingering​ ​the​ ​corduroy​ ​upholstery​ ​with​ ​my​ ​legs​ ​dangling​ ​several​ ​inches​ ​off​ ​of​ ​the​ ​floor, completely​ ​absorbed​ ​in​ ​some​ ​jewel-bright​ ​adventure​ ​of​ ​my​ ​own​ ​creation.​ ​​ ​

This​ ​scenario​ ​in​ ​my mind,​ ​be​ ​it​ ​dark​ ​and​ ​frightening​ ​or​ ​carefree,​ ​wild​ ​and​ ​exuberant,​ ​I​ ​would​ ​dictate​ ​to​ ​my​ ​father. My​ ​dad​ ​dutifully​ ​encouraged​ ​his​ ​daughter’s​ ​colorful​ ​whims,​ ​and​ ​filled​ ​page​ ​after​ ​page​ ​with​ ​the faltering​ ​and​ ​(frequently)​ ​nonsensical​ ​fantasies​ ​I​ ​described.​ ​​

​I just want to say thanks, Dad, for helping cultivate my dream. ♥️


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