ponder

fourteen years ago my father drew me a pond. It was sitting in the veranda of a friend’s home in Yazd. One of those ‘kah-geli’ old gardens.
the water-colour pond is made up of dark and light greys, with a hint of teal on the corner. The figure of two lean and lonely trees is reflected in the water; drawn to perfection, in my eyes.
‘For my dear Tara, 1372.’ It says on the right hand corner.

every time I look at it I wonder why my dad dedicated this to me. I was only 6 years old back then. Why did I have to know about the abandoned pond, the water in it, or the rusty tap? Was he telling me that life is stagnant, was it the splash of teal that I had to look forward to?
or am I the dry tap, waiting to be opened.

my mind runs on. But... what if, he just drew a sketch of a pond in front of him and wrote his daughter’s name on the bottom, as a gesture of gratitude? No subliminal messages, no paternal guidance behind it.
And if so?