When I was about two or three, I had started to walk.My dad used to take me to the city park nearby for evening strolls.
A child is always excited to see the open wide space, the broad blue sky. I was no exception, I wanted to run because it gave me a sense of freedom and control - something a city child is rarely awarded.
I would begin to race myself, it felt liberating.
That was when I would hear my dad call from the back, "don't run, stop"
I never listened, his voice was so muffled and insignificant, shadowed by my crave for freedom and the movement of my body, it felt so good, so alive!
But he would never stop, his voice would constantly echo from behind as a distraction, "Don't run. You will fall. You will fall"
I still wouldn't listen. I never did. As a child I was in fact annoyed, his voice made me want to run even faster.
But somehow, after a few leaps, I would actually fall onto my knees, scraping the skin, crushing against the hard gravel. That's when I would feel the sting, the pain and then feelings of defeat.
I would sit there and cry, though I didn't know whether it was because of the physical pain or the frustration from failure. I always waited for my dad to rush to me and pick me up. He always did, just as how he always said with a sigh, "what did I tell you?" Then he would carry me back home as I quietly weeped.
I never understood why he always told me not to run. I had wondered why my dad would say that. Didn't he have any confidence or faith in me? Did he not trust me? Why would he discourage his own child from running hard?
