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. ♥️