Like Father, Like Daughter

I inherited the need to scribble words on to a notebook from my father,
he was a lyricist and a poet.
Journals filled with fragments describing the life of an only son,
sent to live in a place that had no space for a dreamer.
I never paid attention to my dad's self expression through his writing;
his method of relating to the world around him.
Maybe it was his favorite way to free his mind,
until alcohol came along.

On a Thursday night when I see an empty bottle of Merlot,
I worry about inheriting other dispositions from my father too.
Cognizant of the fact that one relaxing glass of wine a day could turn into an addiction.
A fair share of positive and negative was passed down to me:
a good sense of humor and charisma, coupled with a stubborn hot head.
"You've got your dad's long legs," I'm told.
And it's true, that, and his perfectly long arched eyebrows.

I am heir to his internal struggles:
Being an introvert and an extrovert.
One moment I want to be surrounded by all of my favorite people,
having the time of my life, hyped off a natural high.
Other times, I just want to be alone in a room with a book,
because I feel completely misunderstood by everyone around me,
including myself.

I reminisce about family parties where everyone let loose,
the bacha party was always wilding out.
A Polaroid picture of my cousin's and I,
captioned in dad's writing: "Gandhi's theen bandar"/ Gandhi's Three Monkeys.
Mom went to India for 6 weeks and a Boxer puppy joined the family,
he became man's bestest friend.
I close my eyes and see my dad's rare gap-toothed smile,
These are the memories that illuminate his soul.

My father always ended his writings in big confident letters, "T.S. Gill",
as if to say 'this is all me take it or leave it.'
I hope to be like that one day,
signing off without a care in the world,
just feeling exhilarated by putting words on a page.

G. K Gill