I cannot recall when I unconsciously decided to slow down on my writing. Perhaps it was the lack of time, physical exhaustion, spiritual barrenness, or it can be all these working against me. This after having declared before with all certainty that I’d go mental the moment I quit writing. Or have I become one a long time ago?
My father has never given me any piece of advice on work, my writing, or how to live my life. Or perhaps I need to go deeper into the recesses of my unreliable memory and pull out the memory of that time when my father, in one of those rare moments we have quiet time together in the province, sitting next to me, holding his cup of steaming coffee, me sipping mine, telling me to visit them more often, but not to be worried so much about him and our mother, and that I need to take things slow.
Today’s Father’s Day. For sure my father has never opened this blog. He knows this exists, though, I think. But he will not open this blog to know his son who’s changed so much after having left home more than eleven years ago. Although I am not anymore the same son my father knew, my father will confidently declare that I am still the son he raised and nurtured with my mother in the province. And that I have not changed.
And he knows that I will go back to what I truly love soon as I always did in the past. Home and writing.
Happy Father’s Day, pa.