Enchanted.

An awesome father daughter moment(s) today. Me asking my dad what country each city belonged to, and him not only telling me the correct answer, but also a story to go along with it.

Me: What about Budapest? Where is it?
Dad: *scoffs* I've been there beta. It's in Romania.
Me: Ha! Hungary!
Dad: Which reminds me...

 Having a father who's traveled halfway across the world is definitely a perk. I know where my love of airports, flying, and world traveling have come from. It's the blood.
Actually, a lot of who I am comes from him. My feeling of not being appreciated enough. Holding my anger in for the little things so that there can be a hysterical mess by a slight trigger,later. The need to feel/want independent for the sake of survival. 
The way I look.
My dad's awesome in so many ways. Also, not in other ways. But that's private, isn't it? For the family to know.

Cousin K, who had cancer. Mentioned in a blog post somewhere in May 2011. It's turned terminal. After months of worry, a sigh of relief, followed by more months of her regaining health. And her fresh face, and deep belly laughs. We get a CT scan showing the cancer has metastasized, and there's nothing we can do about it except wait.
She still doesn't know.
This has been known to me longer than just this week. I just choose not to tell sometimes. Maybe there are some things you'll never know. Maybe some things that you'll only know. And this is one thing that you cannot even think about properly. How many times in life do you get the chance to know that somebody is going to go? Let it be known though: It makes no difference. The pain is the same. Grief even more extended. You get more time to say goodbye, but when the end comes,it'll still feel the same, albeit a small, small difference.
She's my age.
Thoughts of her have already filled every particle of my brain, so. Let's stop for now.

She lives in Old Lahore, so let's divert to that. Mentioned before, I love Old Lahore. Especially Chuburji. No, not the druggies hanging around the actual monument, or the choked overflowing sewers. The insane traffic. None of that. I can just look at Chuburji Chowk, and imagine how it was back in 1929. 
The chaar burj has so much culture soaked into its walls. If only they could talk. If only I could properly go inside and see.

For now I'll settle with culture that I can take with me and carry.

I love these.