I’m now in my mid-20s.
I’m more calm now than I used to be. I’m more calculating.
And I still have dreams.
I had dreams when I was 13, and you threw me a birthday party.
It was mostly dominated by your friends and partially dominated by my hormonal mood swings.
I had dreams when I was 14, and I completed my first manuscript.
You helped me publish it a year later.
I had dreams when I turned 16 and got my first byline in a national newspaper.
You helped with that, too.
A week ago, I walked into a media house, and my byline was the one and most important fact that impressed the head of production and creative services.
I had dreams when I turned 19 and flew across the world to gain an Australian education.
I had dreams when I went against your very well-placed wishes and was adamant and stubborn and decided to study journalism against your will.
We didn’t talk for a while because of this.
But now that I’m in my mid-20s, I’m a bit more mature.
With all the dreams I still have, here are eight things I’d like to tell you:
- I miss you.
We haven’t seen each other in over five years due to geographical differences, but I miss you.
I really do.
I miss the scolding, the yelling and the threats.
Somehow, I feel like those always gave me comfort like a blanket on a cold, rainy night.
- I wish you were close by.
I wish I could crankily tell you, “Good morning,” and whine about the ridiculous curfew you would have probably installed.
I wish you were close by so I could hear your voice and smell your Revlon body lotion.
- I wish I could talk to you regularly.
I wish I could talk to you about my dreams.
I’d ask you if I’m on the right track, if I should keep going, if I should change paths or if I should drop it altogether.
You would know what to do.
Perhaps you wouldn’t, but I imagine you would.
- I wish I could tell you about the man I like.
I wish I could talk to you about the man I (think I) love, who doesn’t love me back or just doesn’t know if he does.
I wish you could tell me about the texts I shouldn’t send, the calls I shouldn’t make or the meetups I should never indulge in.
I wish I could ask you if it’s lust, love or some mere messed up infatuation.
You’ve been there before, so I reckon you’d know what I should do.
- I wish you could give me advice on relationships.
I wish you could give me tips on dating, advice about men, warnings about relatives and red-flags in friendships.
I wish I didn’t have to try to figure it out all alone without much maternal guidance, making so many mistakes and learning through them.
I wish I had you around, and if you were, I’d hope I’d have the confidence to ask you for these and the humility to listen and follow your every nugget of wisdom.
- I wish you could assess whether my level of impatience is absolutely absurd.
I don’t like begging, I don’t like insisting, I don’t like asking for the same thing more than twice and I especially don’t like “pleading” for things I’m going to spend my money on, especially services.
Should I be more patient? Should I be more tolerant?
Am I too tough?
And if the answer is yes, what should I do?
- I wish I had you around to make comparisons.
I wish I had you to tell me if I’m a mini-you, and if I really do look like you.
I hope I’m going to look as beautiful as you do 25 years from now.
I hope I have the potential to be as tenacious as you are, and I hope I will be as elegant, regal and spiritual as you.
- I miss your guidance.
I wish I had you close by to tell me a cute (possibly lame) story about your childhood; to sing a silly song when we are both tipsy (both indulging in a bottle of rosé together); to warn me when I’m clearly headed for a train wreck, but ultimately, to guide me when I’m feeling lost and clueless.
I wish you could command me to snap out of it and get moving.
I wish you could tell me to me chase my dreams and remind me there’s absolutely no room for mediocrity.
I miss you.
And I hope you miss me, too.