I will now make an attempt to reconstruct an essay I wrote more than a decade ago for my college English class under the amazing and inspiring Doreen Fernandez. It was about my father, and it was one her favorites out of all the pieces I had written for her class. (She had us write an essay a week for an entire year, as she believed that practice, practice, and even more practice was key for all budding writers.) So here goes:
Nights at the dinner table are always filled with my father's stories, his witty remarks, and his boisterous laughter. He would preside over the table (as heads of families are wont to do), and regale us with anecdotes of his adventures and misadventures as a young boy, his outwitting of would-be muggers he would encounter in Central Park or on the subway on his way home from work, his close brush with death when my brother and I were mere babies. I listened to him in rapt attention, oftentimes with my mouth gaping open in amazement, oftentimes giggling till my sides hurt, and always, always thinking that my dad was the coolest, funniest, most awesome guy on the planet.
But that night was different. The atmosphere at the dinner table was solemn and quiet. And as my dad began to speak, his entire demeanor changed. His face was aglow with a serene light. His eyes were bright, clear, and deep. He had transformed into a sage, wise and philosophical.
