My father’s handwriting is so nice like the painting. When he wanted to tell me something, he wrote it down. Sometimes, he wrote a poem, essay, or several sentences. Those words were so short and clear. Every time, I felt my best friend was talking to me closely and deeply while I was reading his writing. His handwriting looked never messy even though he wrote fast. Some handwriting seemed like a birds’ dance, some handwriting
looked as people were standing in line clearly, and some handwriting felt as if they were running springs of water. When we had some disagreement, he wrote art essays or literary writing and showed them to me. It was as if he told me face to face. If we had the big argument some time, I felt unhappy. The next day, I could see one page of his writing on my desk. Later, I left my hometown and went far away from him. He still wrote the letter to me and talked about the life’s truth. I always enjoy reading his handwriting. His handwriting work was like a book, I felt. Until now!
— January 31, 2002
