If Dad Could Speak
Two days ago, I finished my first novel. It took seven months to write, two years to draft. I’ll soon be launched into a bout of editors continuing the story of a mother-daughter, culture relationship. But I remember the last page was the hardest. At the end, there was nothing I thought of more than my father. I missed thinking about him.
In one business meeting, he filled his notebook with Batman drawings. He inserted that Robin is for girls, not for men. When he drops me off at the airport, he always points towards the Incheon bridge, says it’s the top five longest in the world and if I could believe Koreans built that. I leave him and every day that passes here, he gets older in his Pundang corner couch. His peaking temper lows into a subdued guilt. Now, he’d rather smile into the phone than yell. Like the story’s over. He’s already proud and has done what he’s supposed to, thinking he knows this life fits. I want to cover his gum and hide his teeth. There’s no proof that veins sparked with his blood could lift insignificance off his own time line. I remember why I couldn’t think of him. Someone hasten his speech, open his eyes. Keep him frenzied, alive.
sounds like the ending will be great
ah i miss dad
i thought about my dad today too, thanks for this
me too, I think I’ll give him a call. i’m glad for these reactions.
Congrats on the novel. I’d love to take a look at it, if you need another pair of eyes for the oh-so-fun editing process.
Hey Shaun,
Great to hear from you. I’m getting the manuscript back next week. After I make the first round of edits, I’ll let you know. I could use as many eyes as I could get.
Thanks,
Angela