While sitting on my chair, face buried in the screen in front of me, doing reports that make my head ache, I took a break. Closed the window and opened a new blank page and found myself writing this. What is this? Now that’s the question.

I think about the time my father and I used to sit side by side, coffee in hand, watching sports—probably a basketball game, no doubt about that.

I can see my old self, spouting expletives marines might envy as it is not fit for a lady like me to say stuff like that.

Who says I act like a lady anyway?

That’s the way I am, I was, and my father knew that. I’m a hot-headed woman; I think I got it from him anyway. The only thing I’ve got. He could’ve given me his height, but no. Sigh.

I talked trash and cursed a lot, that’s how I used to watch a game. And I remember him saying nothing, as if I did not exist, and he would just enjoy watching the...