Roots
December 14, 2010 § 5 Comments
My father. All he did was work. Work and spend time with us. I didn’t have him around for half of my childhood, lost to the office in another country, the office that was a home, where he worked, slept, ate. Those long weeks where I cried myself to sleep every time I got scared that he wasn’t coming back. He built for me here. Everything I have.
A shophouse near Clarke Quay | Singapore
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very nice words ying!
I like this. Beautiful. Strange. And similar to how I feel about my father’s office, except his other country was just 45 minutes south somewhere in the far off depths of New Jersey.
I once wrote something about my dad. He spent most of my childhood years working abroad as well. Now, that I have a family of my own, it seems like we are starting over. Kinda awkward, really.
Loving your post and your pictures.
My hands just ITCH to get at that filing cabinet. It makes my OCD tendencies go into overdrive.
daddy ❤