Painting a Picture

I asked my friends what they thought a good birthday present for my father would be.
Some said, “you should paint something, that’s what I always do,”
Others said, “buy him a mug, my dad drinks coffee every morning”.
Yet, I can’t help but find the physical things underrepresenting of the bond between father and daughter.
A father is the one who teaches you to ride;
Whether that be when you’re 8 and learning that you can’t turn the bike handles too sharply or else you’ll hit the curb,
Or when you’re 15 and learning to park relatively within the lines,
Or when you’re 20 and learning how to navigate the messy adult life, like taxes and rent and tempting relationships.
And I’m supposed to say thank you with a mug?
I can only begin to express my appreciation through the memories:
By remembering who light the match for my candle because I’m too proud to admit I’m afraid of the flame,
By recalling the nights when I would listen for the car to roll up the driveway, so I’d have enough time to scurry and find a devious corner to hide in,
By remembering when I would tell myself to stay up late, because not everyone was home from work yet,
By recalling who went to the park with me at 9pm just to help with a night photography project.
By remembering;
By recalling;
Remembering;
Recalling.
But at the end of the day, isn’t this the same as just painting a picture?