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Yesterday, I cleaned up my room. I emptied my desk, said goodbye to last year’s scratch papers (Crissy, they’re all yours! Haha!), and got myself a new set of highlighters and colored pens in preparation for the coming school year. I practically threw everything that’s unnecessary for the coming school year away. Except for this bedazzled box that I made when I was still in my junior year in high school. It was kind of dusty already because the last time I opened it was about two years ago.

After minutes of staring at the box, I finally gathered the courage to open it up and see what’s inside. Papers—lots of them. There were medals, certificates of recognitions and pictures of me in different costumes. I got teary-eyed. Memories came rushing back to me (I know, that was so incredibly cheesy) and I couldn’t help but cry.
The box contains the story of my life for three years. Three long years after my father’s death. For three years, I wrote letters to my dad because I felt that it was the only way to communicate with him… to tell him what’s happening in school, at home and with me. Back then, writing him letters also means crying for a few minutes. It was something that I just couldn’t help but do. I was sad that I could no longer tell him stories like I used to, that I could no longer treat him to McDo every time his favorite teams wins the game and that I could no longer raise my hand and wait for a high five every time I get an award.

Now, I don’t write him letters anymore. I don’t need to, because he’s just here somewhere. Guiding me, inspiring me, and loving me.

Still my dad’s little girl,
Mheems

P.S.
It’s almost Father’s day. What are you planning to give your dads, Candy girls?