This One's for You, Dad.

I am the daughter of an immigrant, a suitcase and a small belt in a blizzard that could never quite freeze quiet persistence and passion and joy.

I am the product of intoxicating citrus, of two trees that might not have created a grove but surely provided nourishment (sometimes with a bit too much pulp).

I come from the smell of eggs with mushrooms and onions in the morning, and the sound waves created by opinions clashing on long stretches of road. 

I leap from cliffs with a running start in a quest to briefly glimpse the moon, fighting gravity and doubt and heartache with every weapon in my arsenal. 

I come from everywhere and nowhere and the places in between somehow simultaneously cherished and forgotten as memories collect dust and cobwebs. 

I wear my heart on my sleeve and fall in love with the people on the subway, dancing along to the communal hum of the thump-thump, thump-thump.

And throughout it all I can say through and through, I am my father's daughter.

I care for you, I talk to you
In my deepest dreams, I'm fortunate
We got a friendship, no one can contest it
And not to mention, I respect you with my all