Words about my dad.

I open the mail, which does not need a return address because I would recognize my dads sprawling letters or my moms perfectly executed curls of ink anywhere.
I find, as expected, at least two articles cut out from The Globe.
In pen, above the title, my name in all caps followed by a barely legible note.
My dad sends me every single article that is about writing, about good people trying to help the homeless, or has a picture of a dog. But, he especially sends me every single article that he thinks is well-written or is formatted in an interesting way. And the note always says something like "this reminds me of that story you wrote," or "this made me think of you," or "you can write something like this and send it in."
Some parents are quiet about their pride.
Not mine.
My dad documents every single moment of his visit with his granddaughters. We've always made fun of him for being unable to look at them without looking through the lens, but I've also always known that these pictures will be sent to my grandparents who only get to see their great-granddaughters every few years. And now that I have moved to California, they are for me too. So I don't feel like I am missing out on my nieces lives.
My dad does this for me, despite the fact that I moved to the West coast without a plan or a job.
He sends me well-written articles despite the fact that I decided to get my MFA in creative writing without taking a single writing class.
He informs me of social justice events despite the fact that I would rather make too little money working at a non-profit than make a stable income as a teacher.
He asks about the man I am in love with, despite the fact that he has not met him yet.
He gives me endless hours of advice verging on lectures. But that is because he is worried.
Because he is my dad.
And I am his daughter, so sometimes I roll my eyes. And sometimes I get frustrated with his point of view and try to scold him into seeing mine.
We don't always see eye-to-eye when it comes to gender roles and identity. And sometimes I feel like he doesn't get me because I get red in the face explaining my views on marriage and children.
But the day after I refuse to stop correcting little things like his use of the word "waitress," I get a letter in the mail. Three articles in all. One about love, one about friendship, one sweet piece about the author finding beauty in the survival of a tree. Three little snapshots that I identify with. It's like three little pieces of the puzzle that make up my personality.
And I know that it's my dads way of telling me that he sees me every day in the good parts of his world. And when he doesn't have the words to tell me that, he sends it to me with the words of others.