Fog is my daughter

  The fog is my daughter, lying outside the window, at the street, under the streetlights. Fog is my daughter, deep, mysterious and difficult to understand. I don’t know how long this fog wanders, how far it is; I only know where in the depths of the fog, there must be traces of my daughter. The father of middle-aged mood is like me, sitting in the living room waiting for the daughter’s night return. She just went to her boyfriend’s date, but I seem to have a long time with her. Should I go to the fog to find her? Do you need to drive to pick her up? The question of indecision, the mist entangled my thoughts.

  When did I start to discover that my daughter became silent? When did I start to know that I was talking to her in this way? When she felt strongly that these problems existed, she was already a girl with long hair and a beautiful girl. Looking at the back of her playing the piano, I regret how many wonderful times have been thrown.

  Just three years ago, my wife was mysterious and told me that my daughter’s moon was coming. I can’t say for a moment what that means. I still remember a few days ago, she and her friends climbed trees in the backyard. Just under the maple tree, she stooped to pick up a red maple. The sun shines through the branches and casts on her shiny face. She asked me if I want to put this leaf in the book? Then I placed it on the pages I opened. I thought that such a day would last forever; I thought she would run on the grass as long as she looked out of the window. Presumably, I was conceiving an article. When I meditated on a political commentary, my daughter took the opportunity to grow up. That always happens when I can’t see her. She is in my world and suddenly disappears in my time. Presumably, at the moment when I traveled, in the days when I was getting together, she was determined to bid farewell to her childhood.

  Am I the kind of man with patriarchy? This is what I don’t know. I often remind her not to treat me as a serious father, but a friend who can talk to me. Her homework has been broken, she has quarreled with her friends, and she has done something wrong. I am happy to sit down and discuss with her. I allow a variety of topics to talk, no taboos. I still remember this conversation, when I was seriously ill in bed. “Will you die?” She asked me with a crisp English worry. I said, “Probably yes.” She curiously asked: “If you are dead, are you willing to choose to be buried in a mountain or a cemetery?” I have never encountered such a problem. I have to answer: “It is better to be on the mountain.” At this time, her expression seemed to have some fear, but she couldn’t help but ask her the most concerned question: “Will you become a beggar?” No one has been so patiently asking the patient, I still honestly replied: ” Yes.” After she heard it, her face changed slightly, and then immediately gave up her condolences and quit the door.

  The imaginative daughter likes to ask questions that are too late to prevent. That highly romantic character, presumably inherits itself. I deeply believe that the space for dialogue between the two is so broad. In the winter night, I made a fire in the oven, and I knew that she would automatically lie in front of the stove and read by fire. That kind of warmth, no need to rely on any words, not from burning wood, but between her and my transparent mind. She likes to enjoy the fire with her father and talk about some unnecessary topics. She is still the child with dreamy eyes. In the swaying flaming red, I slanted her lying position. The innocent look, no one can be sure that she is about to be a girl.

  When I decided to return to Taiwan, I knew that my daughter could not walk with me. Born in a foreign country, she has long been accustomed to thinking and reading in English. Since she was born, I have been involved in long-distance drifting years. For political reasons, I spent a long period of exile. I moved from Los Angeles to Los Angeles and moved from Los Angeles to San Jose. I have never promised a stable home for her. Whenever she is familiar with some friends, she must bid farewell to them because of my move. Such a small heart, tasted a lot of different tastes. As a thinker, I don’t have to agree with strange land, I don’t have to regard the United States as my home. However, I can’t help but think about her. In that land, she gained life; she was forced to live in exile due to her father’s political beliefs. She has no right to choose her place of birth, but at least has reason to choose where she wants to settle. I know that she loves the San Jose Valley, where the golden sun, the green leaves, and the blue sky have become the color of her skin, and it has become part of her personality.

  When I had to return to Taiwan, she finally chose San Jose.

  Am I a man with patriarchy? Can I impose my will on her and force her to return to Taiwan with me? When I was mature, when I was mature, I became cruel and resolutely left my home in a foreign country, which made her lose a father.

  In the gap where I am missing, my daughter must have been rushing towards her world. Her heart, her thoughts, how dramatic changes have occurred, I can’t see. Whenever I reunite with her, I will always find something that I am very unfamiliar with in her body and in her language.

  When I faced me, my daughter was mostly silent. Silence is like a secret of deep locks. I can only explore and observe around the secrets with my toes, so that a girl becomes more and more a mystery to me. Between her and me, how to build a broad gap is no longer questionable. Maybe with emotional sustenance or a way out of thinking, she doesn’t seem to talk to me about unnecessary topics like before.

  When confused, I can’t help but think a little. If she is also on the streets of Taipei, wearing a high school uniform, shoulders school bag, as the crowd crosses the intersection. If she is like a newcomer to Taiwan, she will take the test during the day and dance at night, will I worry that she will make mistakes? In the days when I was not at home, she had learned how to judge, make decisions, and learn how to plan her own life. When she quietly read a stack of thick novels, I couldn’t help but ask her what to read? Is it a romance novel? She said, no, it is a fictional novel about primitive humans. She hopes to become a paleontologist one day. What is a paleontologist? That is a scholar who studies fossils and dinosaurs. She patiently explained to me. In the absence of me, she has developed her personal interests; and that taste is not something I can understand.

  I was sitting in the living room that day, and she said that she would go out to the appointment. Is it a date for a boyfriend? She nodded and said yes. The seventeen-year-old daughter deliberately made up for herself. A light rouge, lightly applied to the lips. Magical and realistic techniques, I am afraid it is not as good as her. In a blink of an eye, she has become a strange girl. How selfish I want to keep her, how I want to discuss her knowledge about paleontology. I can’t make any reason to ask her to stay at home. The doorbell has ringed and her boyfriend is waiting. I can only watch her open the door and see her calmly stepping out of the threshold. The door closed again and I seemed to have lost a daughter.

  The daughter is the fog outside the window, it is the fog that I can hardly understand. In the depths of the fog, there must be her trail. How long she has to wander and how far she wants to go is my unknown. I missed the promise of this life and lost many irreparable times. The fog rushed to the earth, and there was a secret that I never understood. The father of middle-aged mood, like me, is a man who has lost his love, waiting for the window, and chewing the loneliness of the house.

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