A Birthday Present for My Father
I told my father I wanted to be a writer when I was fourteen. “Write what you know,” he replied. I didn’t understand what he meant. I thought he was mocking me.
What would you write about? You know nothing. You’ve lived a boring life.
At twenty-six, I am finally beginning to understand what he meant. I am finding my voice in the thousand little memories in which it hides and drawing from the countless lessons unknowingly learned from my father over the years.