When I think of my father, I think of all the times I’ve said: “Dad, stop – you can’t say that. That’s embarrassing.”
It really makes me wonder about all the times he’s told me not to say something; and come to think about it, he’s never honestly limited my endless rambling. My opinions, my stories, and my thoughts have always been encouraged by my dad. He’s never once told me, “Woobee, hush for a minute.”
I read the birthday cards from him and see myself written between the lines. His capital letters in a large, “dad” font have guided me through my toughest writer’s block, just hoping to capture the love in a sentence that he releases in a syllable.
I am the woman I am today because of his words. Every argument over politics, every quick retort I should’ve kept to myself, and every time I’ve cried in frustration led to every conversation about the world, every witty joke, and every fond hug and forehead kiss.
My father is a man of few words, but I strive to be a woman who uses his expression.