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I stood by the stove on the last Saturday in April. The balcony doors were slid open, welcoming the soft breeze into the house. The pile of laundry sitting on the sofa as the trees in front of my window rustling. To me, there's a certain noise that weekends make. How it differs from the other day, I can't quite explain it. April has that kind of vibe. It always feels like 24 to me. Time of transition, from the beginning of the year to get into the year, if that makes sense. Twenty-four was like that. Only that I feel there's no middle ground between twenty-four and thirty. My father was born in April. This time around of the year, we would spend hours on the phone, talking. I would see texts and texts from his friends and colleagues, family and relatives - congratulate him for being born into this world. This year, right when the clock showing midnight time of his birthdate, suddenly I sobbed on the pillow. Thanking the man who made me who I am today, for being the best father in the world. Sometimes I wonder if I had saved the world and humankind in my past life, to win the lottery of having the best parents in the universe.  

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you can love or hate. but with respect.

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