Last night, while my Dad and I were cutting and pasting his own articles and placing them in a portfolio, this mini conversation happened:
Dad: What day is it tomorrow? Saturday?
Me: No, it's Sunday.
Dad: Okay.
Me: Why?
Dad: You haven't written your article yet.
I should have known, one way or the other, that he'd bring it up even though I had repeatedly asked him not to.
While I was browsing through his articles that dated back to 2003, I'd noticed how, over the years, the papers have turned to yellow-ish brown. He'd had 2 pages full of his coverage on a specific event and I had asked him if he really did all of that in one day. He'd said yes: He'd attend an event at night and would come back home, note down the details, even if it meant staying up till mid-morning, because, he said, he is supposed to turn it in by the morning.
I wondered if I'd be capable of doing that when I'm reluctantly writing for my column before the day of submission it self. Dad showed me his column; it was full of interesting articles and plots, rich in meaning and vocabulary and I wondered if I could ever live up to his achievements.
If Dad, I decided, wasn't pressing me in about sitting down to write up something for my column over the past few months, I know for a fact that I'd become careless by the day and forget all about it. Keeping the fact of having asked him that it truly bugs me aside, I am happy to realize that this is exactly what keeps me going: Him.