An 80-year-old man was sitting on the sofa in his house chatting with his 45-year-old son. Suddenly a crow (乌鸦) landed on their window edge.

The father asked his son, “What is that?”

The son replied, “That is a crow.”

After a few minutes, the father asked his son for the second time, “What is this?”

The son said, “Father, I told you just now. It’s a crow.”

After a little while, the father asked his son the same question for the third time, “What is this?”

This time, the son said to his father in a low and cold tone, “It’s a crow, a crow, a crow.”

After a moment, the father yet again asked his son for the fourth time, “What is this?”

This time the son shouted at his father, “Why do you keep asking me the same question again and again? I have told you already, ‘IT IS A CROW.’ Are you unable to understand this?”

A minute later the father went to his room and came back with a diary, which he had kept since his son was born. On opening a page, he asked his son to read that page.

“Today my little son aged three was sitting with me on the sofa when a crow suddenly landed on the window edge. My son asked me 23 times what it was, and I replied him 23 times that it was a crow. I hugged him lovingly each time he asked me the same question. I didn’t feel angry at all, but instead felt affection for my son”.

If your parents reach old age, do not look at them as a burden, but speak to them gently, and be kind to them. From today say this aloud, “I want to see my parents happy forever. They have cared for me ever since I was a little child. They have always showered me with love. I will respect and take care of my old parents in the best way no matter how they behave.”

My memories of my father are divided into parts and shares. Alive, and then dead. Healthy, and then helpless. And further back in time, the first and most division: Present and then absent; loving, and then indifferent.

He used to be a good writer and loving father. When I was a 16-year-old girl, he was fired from his company, a public, gossip-based dismissal that he would spend decades refusing responsibility for. This was the first crack that divided my relationship with him into poles of before and after. To escape his shame, he pushed away those who reminded him of it, first divorcing my mother, then alienating my sister and I.

As an adult, my relationship with my father was one of low expectations and high boundaries. He spent most of his time travelling. But when he died of heart failure in August, I was knocked off balance by the weight of the blow. I thought, after years of setting up delicate fences around our relationship, that I had already begun letting go. His death delivered a realization: despite years of analyzing his complicated love for me, there were pieces of my father I never understood—until I found my father’s notebooks in his cupboard.

In the notebooks, he often collected documentation: train tickets from Rome or a photograph of San Francisco’s Prescott Hotel. But what he was also doing was offering fatherly guidance, the kind I could only receive after he died. His life, in which what he had was never quite enough, was eventually exposed. In his final decade, he realized he had built a castle for himself upon sand and regret. Now in his entries, I hear his voice. “Debaleh,” I hear him say, using his pet name for me, “learn from my mistakes.”

I read these pages among my dad’s clothes, and wept. I hadn’t known that my father, too, lived with that familiar ache for new horizons in his heart, the one that can only be comforted by traveling.