A Birthday Letter to My Unica Hija

Dear Nikkei,

You were probably five or seventeen years old. We were in front of a Mcdonald’s counter ordering food. You wanted a Happy Meal. I said, NO! -with the authority of a military captain waiting for a promotion. You then buried your face into mommy’s side and cried. Mom’s blouse was drenched in a blend of salty tears and sweet mucus. It melted my ice cream cone and ruined the rhythm of my cone-twisting and licking. I never intended to make you cry. If only I knew the hidden effects of a Happy-Meal-Not-Served, I wouldn’t have said No! right away. I may have probably toned down to a “Not again, sweety.” Or, “Maybe tomorrow, princess. Coochie coochie, ya ya.”

This true story never departed from my now-rotten memory bank. It took a while for me to recover from that melted ice cream. It was a waste of food and created an ugly mess in my hands, you must understand. 

That must have been the start of our agree-disagree, approve-disapprove father-daughter clash relationship. I’m sure you won’t agree. So what else is new. We’ve become the definition of far-from-normal healthy father-daughter relationship.

We were always at the opposite ends of the spectrum, side A-side B, micro-macro, black-white, pottatto-potaytow. You want more? Red-blue, left-right. But wait! We’re both left-handed! See, we’ve got something in common.

Maybe that’s not all. Afterall, ve love our bread and ve love our butter. But most of all, ve love each otheur.

And for the cheesy part, that ice cream thing is just my heart. And that captain is just Von Trapp.

Happy birthday, Nikkei! ¡Te quiero mucho, mi querida hija!

I raise this cup to Nikkei index up by one!


Your Dadda.

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