On love for my father
In their attempts to neatly categorize my developmental state, most people misconstrue and distort my ambivalent but unambiguous love for my father. Today, over yam tempura the texture of orange, blistered skin, perhaps a sunburn, my oily lips fatten & deify my father with steadfast sincerity only possible when bathing in matcha under chilly spring clouds. Surprised & melodramatically so, Fan rocks his watermelon wedge leather shoes over his shoulders, only to upset precariously balanced chopsticks. Tangy salad dressing spray from wet iceberg lettuce like ginger-flavor fireworks. "This is a complete reversal of your position in high school." Having been my friend for several years, moreover the crucial several years of adolescent psychiatric growth spurt, his diagnosis of my ideologies still wants complexity and context. Any opinion, desire or emotion enjoys multiple levels which may differ in magnitude and directionality. I have always hated, despised, worshiped and adored my father. Each emotion corresponds to a different drink: soda, coffee, juice and wine. I enjoy all four drinks, but must I enjoy all four together? Is it inconceivable that on a simmering, slow-cooker kind of day I might prefer juice to coffee? Yet even on this simmering day, to deny my penchant for the latter would be inaccurate. Abstracting the parallel, I experience the four sentiments truly and earnestly, but one need not necessarily consistently dominate. Doubt of my daughterly affection typifies puerile stereotyping, not adult cognition.
Only on a Thursday night, I suspect my father may have been a travelling balladeer in a past life. I was his lute companion. When fervent strumming and bumpy rides severed strings and fractured wooden bellies, grinding my voice finely to the whisper of breath through teeth, he would change my strings and glue back my splinters. Off-key, I appropriate & transform all melodies. Where would I be, without his fingerprints heavy on my fretboard? For these mismatched wires and hair-thin glue lines, I am infinitely indebted.
I only want to say I love you. I love you.
Only on a Thursday night, I suspect my father may have been a travelling balladeer in a past life. I was his lute companion. When fervent strumming and bumpy rides severed strings and fractured wooden bellies, grinding my voice finely to the whisper of breath through teeth, he would change my strings and glue back my splinters. Off-key, I appropriate & transform all melodies. Where would I be, without his fingerprints heavy on my fretboard? For these mismatched wires and hair-thin glue lines, I am infinitely indebted.
I only want to say I love you. I love you.