The Unspoken Love of Her Father

Remembering her father, translated…

When I couldn’t have any appetite during the summertime, I’d, made porridge, the porridge didn’t have any tastes, putting in the green bean soups, it’d made the green bean soup tasted less sweet, and, it’s, also, appetizing, I can have three bowls, and wanted some more. As I thought about how pops loved this before he’d died, I can’t help, but chuckle, my four younger sisters stated, how I’d become, more and more like pops by the day, not only my external appearances, but, my behaviors, were exactly like his too. Once I’d gone back home to visit, I’d taken up the plastic bags used for the fruits, laid them out flat, folded them into thin strips, then, folded them up corner to corner, into triangles, then, placed them into the drawers, my younger sisters exclaimed, “Wow, pops used to do that too!”

For many years, my father found himself, in the company of us, seven beauties (five of us siblings, my mother, and my maternal grandmother), he’d become, like a silenced man, after work, he’d sat on the floors, playing cards, didn’t care that his five little lovers from a former life were, making raucous all around him. He was also, an expert in storage, everything from the quilts, the newspapers, the clothes, he’d, folded them all up, orderly, he’d especially loved, sorting through the plastic bags my mom brought home from her grocery shopping trips, but the sound of the plastic bags rubbing against each other always gave me the goosebumps, so, as I saw pops, laying out all the plastic bags on the floors, I’d, fled the scenes immediately.

In my memories, the closest we’d ever gotten, was as I’d gotten into my first choice of middle school, he rode his bicycle, took me in circles around our streets, faced to the wind, he’d, let out a chuckle every now and then. But, I’d, not done well at all in my high school entrance exams, and, in our public housing, I was the only one, who’d not gotten into a school I’d wanted to get into, he’d become so angry that he’d started, trembling hard, and, after a long while, he’d, breathed out, “I’m so ashamed!” between his teeth. I’d shamed him, made him couldn’t hold his head up high in front of everybody he’d worked with, ever since, he’d, ignored me.

As I got into community high school, the very first Chinese course, the instructor handed us a blank sheet, wanted us, to write out all the poems we could remember, said that it’s, a test of our skills levels, I was filled with inspiration, and, filled the entire sheet up completely, after the teacher read my answers she was, in awe, and promised me, that even if I’d not shown up for class, I’d, ease through her course too. And, after I got home, I’d gloated to my mother about it and, my pops, who was normally, a man of limited words got angered, and started ranting, “You did it on purpose, didn’t you! N you can’t remember the math formulas, the English words, but, you’re good, at recalling the verses of those, ancient old poetry in Mandarin?”, all the displeasures came to him, and, he’d started, grilling me hard, would rather believe, that it was due to my lack of hard work, and refused, to admit, that I just might be, mediocre.

I’d fallen in love with writing later on, because I’d kept everything bottled up inside, and needed an outlet, I’d used my words, to heal myself, that, was how I’d passed through my teenage turbulences with little to no difficulties. I’d originally thought, that pops only cared about my academic performances, to use me as a tool for gloating, but on the year I turned twenty, he handed me a cookie tin, and with that tone of blaming me, “You’d sent in your writings all over the places, I’d gotten, too tired, from clipping it all for you!” that, was when I’d learned, that he had been, paying attention to me in his own ways. I’d wanted to step up, and hug him, but didn’t dare to, as I thought about how I’d, hurt him so, I couldn’t forgive myself for it. Six years ago, he fell seriously ill and was hospitalized, my younger sisters are middle aged, and still, played coy with him, hugged on to his frail body and talked to him, and I’d just, stood by, and stared in coldness, or, mumbled on things that were, unimportant in my life to him.

As to when I’d lost that sensitivity toward the sound of the rustling plastic bags, I have no recollection. Sometimes, I’d looked in the mirrors, and saw pops looking back at me, I am, more and more like pops by the day here, not articulate, only hidden my affection deep inside of my heart, like a silent seed. After my father passed away, I’d realized, just how much I loved him, but couldn’t work up the courage to tell him so whilst he was still alive.

So, this, is the way the father and daughter interacted, because the father showed his love to his children in ways that the children didn’t feel it, that, was why there’s this, distance between the father and the daughter, but, after finding that box of newspaper clippings, the woman realized, just how much her father cared for and loved her, and, the father got mad at her for not doing well enough in her studies, because he blamed himself, for not teaching her well enough, he’d just wanted his daughter to be excellent, to be better than he was.