Love
Thus, the next 365 days will be dedicated to these most perfect people. Flashbacks and present moments recorded. I am indebted to the souls, the soul, of the Universe.
Day 1.
The earliest memory I have of my dad is morning arguments over what I had chosen to wear to school. I would insist that my striped pants and polka dotted shirt was a superb outfit because they both had the color pink in them. In turn, he would plead with me to put jeans on so I wouldn't freeze (and so I would semi-match). I refused, I always refused. He didn't fight hard, he knew it was important for me to be comfortable in my chosen outfit. Looking back, I'm so thankful that he chose not to win that battle (although he could have relatively easily had he threatened a grounding). Because he let me win, I learned that I don't need to keep up with the Kardashians, I simply need to be comfortable, even if that means polka dots and stripes.
When I was in first grade, I signed up for a football contest. My dad took me to the store, bought me a tee and a football and practiced with me as often as I asked. Somewhere between my imaginary marriage to Michael Jordan and middle school, I fell in love with basketball. So, my dad put a mini-cement pad equipped with a basketball net in our backyard. In 8th grade, I joined a club soccer team. Shortly thereafter, my dad built a rebounding soccer goal adjacent to the basketball court. Oh, and dance pictures, how could I forget the time he tried shamelessly to put a feather in my hair. As the other girls' moms decorated their faces with blush and red lipstick, my dad crookedly placed a black feather with pink lace into my jenky ponytail.
One time he got really (and rightfully) mad at me because I was making fun of a basketball player on TV. Now, I think he was trying to teach me that all people are worthy of kindness, even if they can't sink a shot.
At 18, I flew to Israel by myself. My last days in Israel coincided with the Israeli-Hezobollah conflict of 2006, meaning my final night in the Promise Land was shared with war jets, shoddy power, and fear. Upon arriving in Washington DC the next day, I called my parents to let them know I was back on American soil. Before I hung up the phone, my dad said, "I love you."
It was the first time I had ever heard it from him. Although, never did I doubt how much he loved me. I can't count the things my dad has done and continues to do for me. I can't relate how selfless he is. Last summer, he planted a garden for me. He built my bed. Him and my mom have flown to Texas only to hop in the car and drive to South Dakota with me. When I go home, he buys extra sweet potatoes because he knows its the one food that I will always like.
Since the first "I love you" when I was 18, I've heard my dad say those three words maybe twenty times. I've seen him show me love an innumerable amount of times. Really, the internet isn't big enough for me to record the wonderful ways in which my father has loved.
My dad has taught me that love isn't words, love isn't self-serving, but love is doing.
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