“You’re 12 years old. It’s your birthday. Write for ten minutes on that memory. GO. “
I’m a six-grader in elementary school. It’s December now. I’m going to graduate from elementary and go to junior high school next spring.
My father got ill in April last year. He had been hospitalized for a few month. Had a surgery. He got better now. But I was really worried that he might die. He’s strong but he’s not truly the same as he was before.
I started being kind of practical. Or realistic. I wanted be a child a bit longer. He got married late, so had the firstborn, me, late. I started to realize what that meant. I wanted to become a writer. I wanted to become a painter. I wanted to be with my dog longer. I started to behave better. I often weep alone. I started writing poems on my happy old days.
Well, don’t worry! My father is still alive and well. Can you believe it? He’s in his 80s now! So it’s okay. But sometimes, I also feel a bit sad for the things I lost back then.