It's hard to believe that Dad has been gone these many years.
I've only visited his grave twice.
It took me more than ten years to get over his passing.
I had a difficult relationship with my Dad from day one.
Right now I only want to remember the good things about him.
Dad was fifty two when I was born.
Others often mistook him as my grandfather.
I never met my grandparents. Dad was seventeen when he left China.
Those were wartimes and he never returned.
I regretted not knowing much about him.
In his quest for sons Mom gave birth to eleven children,
eight girls and three boys. He was faithful to Mom and was a good provider.
He was a builder but one day he fell from the roof.
He was about sixty then and never worked again.
In his spare time he taught my brothers martial arts.
Since no girls were allowed,
I observed them from secret places and learned a few moves.
All my life I tried too hard to be a boy.
In my twisted thinking Dad may like me if I passed off as a boy.
So I spent most of the time with my brothers and their friends.
We played the street games, trapped birds and caught crickets in the field.
I was one of the boys.
But in Dad's eyes I was a rebellious girl,
a tomboy at best.
There were very few good memories of Dad and me.
I remembered when I was around eight or nine year old,
Dad often asked me to go to the sundries shop.
All he wanted was a bottle of stout.
He then poured me a small cup as some sort of reward.
It was bitter at first but tasted good over time.
Those were the tender moments of me and my Dad.
It's kind of twisted I know.
