My father received his education during the Japanese occupation of Taiwan. Thus, his eyes always had a stern force, and he was strict and demanded a lot from us. We never dared to be close to him. My love for Dad was always restrained, and there was an indescribable sense of strangeness.

In the traditional fashion, our parents had been brought together in a marriage arranged by a matchmaker. Our parents worked very hard for us, but they never complained. We were not rich, but we were happy. Just when we had grown up and were able to help make life better for us all, my poor, overworked mother fell sick and died.

After she had been buried, our strong father changed completely. He started to drink, and he became withdrawn and short-tempered. No matter what we tried to say to him, he refused to listen and would even yell at us. Our spirits at home dropped to an all-time low.

One cold winter night after a midnight movie, I wandered around in the cold, lonely streets because I didn't want to face the suffocating atmosphere at home. When I finally got home, I saw that a yellow light was still on in my father's room. I thought he had passed out again from drinking. Suddenly, I heard a soft sobbing sound. When I opened his door, I found Dad embracing Mom's picture and crying.

At that instant, grief and sorrow swept over me! I'd never thought there would be a time when my strong father could not take it. When Dad needed help, what did I give him?

Alas, I can't do anything for him now. Actually, all I really wanted was simply to listen to his stories of the war against Japan, or to read him something from the newspaper. But now, I can only call out to him tearfully at night and look for him in my dreams.

I often go to Dad's grave and carefully pull every weed. Sometimes, tiny grains of sand fall on his tomb. I can't dust them away nor can I pick them up. I can only blow them away, blow them until I become dizzy, until the tears stream down my cheeks again…