Rainy Days and Lemon-Yellow Umbrellas

Dear You,

The sky was grumpy. The clouds were shaggy like the grey mane of a wolf. Underneath the shaggy clouds was a glowing red button. The clouds would cry occasionally and freckle the yew trees with thick water. The tree-scented droplets would drip onto your lemon-yellow umbrella.

I watched you.

I watched you as you curled into a little ball, and tucked yourself under the eaves. I wanted to run to you. I wanted to hug you and comfort you and tell you that you'd be alright.

But I couldn't.

So I watched you from afar.

I love you because when your parents came to you with a warm sweater and ample love, my frown broke into a smile.

That was when you were four. You ran away from home, I don't know why but you did. You were safe the whole time. I looked out for you.

Because I care for you.

I remember the day when the heavy summer rain was pouring upon my head and you were watching your mother and I fight.

I was the bad guy.

Your mother was right.

So I left you.

I love you because I take the scarce paper I find and write using the minimal light that pours out of my grey barred windows. I love you because it's hard for me to mail them. Most of the time, I have piles of untouched words scribbled on yellow paper flooding my room.

This paper will never reach you. It won't. It will sit along with my thousand other papers in my jail cell. But one day, maybe you will receive this.

You might be flaming with anger.

Or bright and happy.

Or sad.

But people make mistakes, and I made one. So please try to forgive me.

I love you.

Your,

Father

Dear You,

You are probably seventeen now.

I used to imagine things. I used to imagine you and I walking through the University Campus on Orientation Day. I used to imagine you asking me questions and I answering them with a smile glued to my face. The weather would be sunny and bright on that day, and you would be so excited that you'd jump around every few minutes. After that, I'd take you to Dairy Queen and we'd discuss your future over a Blizzard. And you'd drop the icecream all over your shirt and I would laugh and then accidentally drop it all over my shirt.

But you are probably doing that with your stepfather now.

I hope you are well.

Your,

Father

Dear You,

I don't know if you are married and in a big cookie-cutter. You might be in a cheap apartment or travelling the world. You might already have kids.

Wherever you are, I still love you.

If you are planning to have kids or if you already have them. Or If you want to adopt them. Or if you don't even want any kids I want you to know something.

If you are in your nice big house, with your child's head resting against his shoulder, you will probably know how amazing it is to have a child of your own.

And you probably love this child very very very much.

I love you more.

I love you through the quantum portals and back, I love you as much as the sky loves stars.

But my love must be restrained. Because I can't love you. Because I want what's best for you. My love is like a free stallion, but the stallion must be captured by a rope.

Your,

Father

Dear You,

I'm getting old. I'm not young anymore. I can't shoot hoops or run laps. I cannot read stories without thick reading glasses.

I remember that day when you were playing basketball. You were the only girl on your team. But you were still excellent. In my eyes and everybody else who had a little sense in them. You would do fabulous layouts and amazing steals. But one day, you beat a bulky boy. He had a small red nose like a tomato glued onto his circular face, his hair was carrot red and his smile was missing two front teeth from an earlier fight. He came up to you and started to beat you up, I ran over there and picked up the boy like he was a fly and placed him very very very far from you. Then later, when we got home I taught you self-defence.

You will probably never see me again.

We used to talk about cumulous clouds and sweet lemons, pink peonies, soft teddy bears, frosted cupcakes, and everything you loved.

But you probably don't remember me.

Your,

Father

Dear You,

Give your mother a rose. The red red ones that grow deep in the grove, and show her the fresh beehives that swung and thrummed on the thin brown branches.

Please tell her I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for getting desperate and stealing.

Because it was wrong of me.

But what I care most about is if you will forgive me. And if you do, give me a sign.

Dear You,

My hands are red and wrinkled and my back aches almost every second. My eyes are always glazed and nothing can cure me.

When I'm hot, I refresh myself.

When I'm cold, I warm myself.

When I'm thirsty, I drink water.

When I'm hungry, I eat.

But when I feel a great big hole in my heart, there is nothing I can do.

Yours,

Father

Dear You,

I am dying. And I can't write any more to you. I'm sorry. Just remember I love you.

Because every part of me is dead except my love for you.

Yours,

Father