Handwriting

📅 April 9, 2026

Nearly everyone carries something in their pockets. A lighter, some money, rolling papers, receipts, keys, old tickets, snack crumbs, a few coins. My father carried handwritten notes.

My father wrote a lot. He believed in putting things down, from lists arranged in neat rows to sufficiently spaced digits. I remember his first phone, a Bird, and how I tried again and again to teach him how to store numbers in it. He would nod as if he understood, even try it once or twice. But he always returned to what he trusted; a crumpled, dirt-streaked A4 sheet, crowded with hundreds of numbers written by hand.

I remember his handwriting, slanted, bold, pressed so firmly into the page that the words appeared through to the adverse side. He had a habit of underlining things, too. And, yes, with those short, sturdy transparent rulers in math’s sets. Most times I helped him send texts, but even then, he would first write out what he wanted to say, carefully, on paper, and have me copy it exactly.

The last time I witnessed him write, it was just the two of us at the dining table. I spoke more than I meant to, about how painful the previous year had been and how the present one felt no lighter. He listened without interruption, eyes shut, nodding, missing nothing, then reached out for a piece of paper. Pen in hand, he began to write Bible verses in black ink.

That evening felt strange, almost unreal. Didn’t feel like he was giving me mere guidance me as much as it felt he was giving me things to carry within me.

I have lost that paper, but there’s a verse from Isaiah that has remained with me.

I do not know why I am writing this, but today, it seems, appears to be one of those days.