A letter to my Father (Pt 1)
Papa we hardly speak. Meeting you in the eye, I am ashamed. You would why I might be. Then, I remember our simpler times, the brighter days of our forgotten childhood. You used to tickle me on the feet, asking If I would rather be a good girl and off to school to study. I sluggishly, rather in my sleep, I yawn and seek, to hide my feet so that could catch my sleep.
You let me sleep. You know your little girl was off to her dreams.
Then I get ready, you help me finish by brekkie and walk me to my blue little chariot that took me to the school where they teach, about far off lands and world apparently. It was all a story to me you see. My world was you and mummy, though you two were poles apart to see but in my heart if you could peek, we were a happy family.
Summers, scortching heat. Early morning, our favorite routine. You advice me how walking on dew would help my little eyes glee. We woke up every summer morning, walking on the green grass, soaking all the dew night left for thee and me.
And we walk and walk till the sun came up, collecting raw cotton from the tree in front of our little hut, we collect so that we could make our own cloth, or so was the notion to please my little heart and lips to smile atleast.
Father, I know did all you could to make me smile. You were growing up too, while I bloomed, I turned into a young woman and you old man of sixty two.
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