My name is GOSSIP.

I have no respect for justice.

I maim without killing, I break hearts & ruin lives.

I am cunning, malicious and gather strength with age.

The more I quoted, the more I am believed.

I flourish at every level of society.

My victims are helpless. They cannot protect themselves against me because I have no name & no face.

To track me down is impossible. The harder you try, the more elusive I become.

I am nobody’s friend.

Once I tarnish a reputation, it is never the same.

I topple governments & wreck marriages. I ruin careers & cause sleepless nights, heartaches & indigestion. I spawn suspicion & generate grief. I make innocent people cry on their pillow. Even my name hisses.

I am call GOSSIP. College gossip - shop gossip - party gossip - telephone gossip. I make headlines and headaches. Remember, before you repeat a story, ask yourself; is it true? Is it fair? Is it necessary? If not, do not repeat it. Keep it quiet.

My dad & I sat at a small cafe with our large mugs of teh tarik & tasted like home. We were catching up on the past four months of our lives & the hours just weren’t long enough. Sure, we had talked on the phone but the calls were long distance & it was rare to find a moment when my room-mates wasn’t waiting for the dinner. So while we knew of each other’s experiences, we had not yet dissected them. As we discussed his new idea, my latest job applications, my new friends & his latest recipes, I leaned back into my cushion & thought; I always knew when he became my father but when had he become my friend?

As far as I can remember my dad was always the first person that I came to with every tears & every laugh. When I lost a tooth & when I found a friend, when I fell from my bike & when I got back on it, he was there. He never judged me; he let me set my own expectations. He was proud when I succeeded & supportive when I didn’t. He always listened; he seemed to know when I was asking for advice & when I just needed a good cry. He multiplied my excitement with his own & divided my frustrations with his empathy & understanding.

When he picked me up from school, he always asked about my dad. I remember that one day when I asked about his. I think it was a little surprise that he had so much to say. We rarely had late-night talks (because he’s too busy with work, nor early-morning (because I was not yet up) but in between the busy hours of our busy days, we found the time to fill each other’s ears with stories & hearts with love. He slowly shared more & more of his own life with me & that made me feel more open with him.

Learning that he still had blocks to build & to tumble made me more comfortable with my own. He made me feel that my opinions were never immature & my thoughts never silly. What surprise me now is not that he always remembered to tell me “sweet dreams” but he never forgot to tell me that she believed in me. When he started going through some changes in his life, I had the opportunity to tell him that I believed in him, too. My father had always been a friend. He had given me his heart in its entirely; but his soul, he divulged in pieces when he knew that I was ready.