Your comment has officially set the bar for compliments—and now I’m over here, wondering if I can frame it and hang it above my desk. “Fantastically surprising” and “poetic” are high praise, and I’m quietly thrilled that the essay managed to blow you away without needing a gust of wind or a leaf blower.
This was spectacular. And I did play the music which was a brilliant supplement to the mood of the piece. Thank you for sharing and writing about the mechanics of your bond with your father. Deeply touching, poignant, profound, and nourishing of the heart.
Thank you—that’s incredibly kind! Writing about my father stirred up a lot, which, of course, sent The Tyrant into overdrive. 'Oh mining daddy issues for applause now, are we?' he hissed, unimpressed. Still, I'm glad the music and the mechanics landed for you—it's the sort of thing that makes telling him to shut up worth it.
You pierced my heart and soul on this one. I'm sitting here in tears right now; but in a good way. Of course, my father wanted a boy instead of a girl though I didn't disappoint him. Any time he was outside working on the car I was right beside him even before I could see over the hood. You had to be at least 4 feet tall to see over the hood back in those days. He taught me everything about working on cars, each of the tools and how much torque to use for certain engines. My cousin and uncles also taught me as a teen.
In my Sophomore year of high school I took auto mechanics; not only was I the only girl in class, but I had the highest grades and I was the only one allowed to work on the original school car and got it running again. (Yes I became the teacher's pet lol). My mother had to write a letter to the school giving her permission for me to take the class because I'm a girl; she told them that it was discriminatory and ludicrous.
My father taught me how to take apart engines and put them back together; we did that with his 69 Mustang GT Fastback over that next summer in 90 degree heat. *Side note: Never take apart a manual transmission in direct sunlight on black top in that kind of heat, no matter how well hydrated you keep yourself.
We had a lot of good memories despite the harsh ones and the good ones are the ones I try to hold onto. When I found out he passed away in 2014 I was devastated; it was like part of my world collapsed. Thank you so very much for bringing him back to life for me through this. You have no idea how humbled and grateful I am to you!
Hey Raven, how your words moved me. Isn’t it something, the way our fathers leave their fingerprints on our lives, not just in the way they taught us to tighten a bolt or rebuild an engine, but in the way they taught us to be brave? Your story - your father’s Mustang, the auto shop, the heat of that blacktop - it’s all so alive, so full of love and grit.
I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m also so grateful you had him, that he gave you those tools, those memories, that unshakable pride in being his daughter. Grief is the price we pay for love, and your love for him shines so brightly in your words. Thank you for letting me be a small part of that. Keep holding on to those memories, because they're not just memories- they’re proof of how much he loved you, and how much you loved him back.
Even better, whenever you're ready, write about it - I'll bring my best pair of ears to listen to it.
Thank you Linda! your words mean so much, truly. If I could, I’d bottle that awe and save it for the days when writing feels like wrestling with a very stubborn sentence. Your encouragement reminds me why I do this, and I’m grateful to share the journey with writer-readers like you. Here’s to more stories, more connection, and maybe just a few fewer stubborn sentences!
Beautiful, beautiful piece Kuriakin. So poetic and poignant, with lessons of a lifetime weaved in so artfully. Thank you for writing this, and honored to have played even the tiniest part in your journey.
Thank you so much—your words feel like a warm hug disguised as a comment, and I’m not quite sure how to respond without turning into an emotional puddle. Poetic and poignant? Artfully weaved? You’re making me wonder if I somehow bribed the muse and forgot about it.
But truly, the honor is mine. Every tiny part—whether it’s feedback, encouragement, or simply sharing the same space in this writing journey—matters more than you know. Thank you for seeing the lessons, the layers, and maybe even the humor hiding in the folds. I hope the piece did justice to the journey we’re all on, and I’m endlessly grateful you’re a part of mine.
You weaved a beautiful tapestry of heartfelt moments with definitions of mundane words and phrases to take me on a poignant journey about the spoken and unspoken sacrifices of our fathers. The best essay of Write of Passage.
Thank you for such a generous and moving comment—it’s the sort of praise that makes me wonder if I should retire now, undefeated, and live out my days misplacing brioche buns. But seriously, your words feel like they belong in their own essay, maybe something called The Best Comment of Write of Passage.
I’m glad the mundane words worked their magic. They remind me that it’s the small, overlooked things that often carry the most weight—like the way fathers teach us love through actions rather than words, or how a phantom rattle can summon both laughter and legacy. Thank you for seeing the heart in the piece; it means more than I can fit into a definition.
Now, I’ll be over here, googling “how to graciously respond to being called the best without fainting.
Wow, thank you! Considering I was stitching together ransom notes... I was aiming for 'moderately coherent'... so 'holy shit' is truly a high praise. A career milestone, even. But truly, your words mean a lot to me.
Thank you for such a heartfelt comment—it's not every day you hear your writing has caused a physical reaction, and I mean that in the best way possible! That line holds a lot for me, so knowing it resonated with you feels like sharing a moment across the page.
You absolutely had me with phantom raddle: "I call over my father, but of course, Mr. Pavlov goes silent. “There,” I insist, waving frantically in the general direction of the engine as my father looks at me with the expression of someone who just discovered their child might be unwell."
I can picture little you sticking out your hand SO EMPHATICALLY and fully believing that your father could fix it
Oh, I was emphatic, all right—hand outstretched like a tiny Shakespearean actor performing The Tragedy of the Phantom Rattle. Thank you for this—it’s a comfort to know that even my childhood theatrics have found an audience.
To think this whole thing started as an elaborate attempt to avoid crafting transition statements.… and yet here we are, calling it 'unique storytelling.' 😬
Loved this narrative and I tip my hat to your dad who gave you the foundation and push to do great things. It's a touching reminder that we stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before us. Thank you for sharing this touching story.
This is one of the most poignant stories I have ever read. I love your father’s twinkling eyes and humble wisdom. I love the imagery of the chicken dance and the endless sea and sky. And I love how you have alchemized your experience into moving images on the page.
As wife and mom to two mechanically inclined car enthusiasts, I could picture my guys in the garage working, teaching, learning, disagreeing, arguing, and loving. This piece is a testament to one of the most endearing relationships between father and son. Thank you for sharing it with us.
I love the way you structured this as a descending list of definitions and pivoted the meaning of each on its head. Such a beautiful way to show how our relationship and understanding of words is so based on our own unique experiences.
What a fantastically surprising essay, a very unique way and poetic way to impart meaning. I am blown away by this.
Your comment has officially set the bar for compliments—and now I’m over here, wondering if I can frame it and hang it above my desk. “Fantastically surprising” and “poetic” are high praise, and I’m quietly thrilled that the essay managed to blow you away without needing a gust of wind or a leaf blower.
This was spectacular. And I did play the music which was a brilliant supplement to the mood of the piece. Thank you for sharing and writing about the mechanics of your bond with your father. Deeply touching, poignant, profound, and nourishing of the heart.
Thank you—that’s incredibly kind! Writing about my father stirred up a lot, which, of course, sent The Tyrant into overdrive. 'Oh mining daddy issues for applause now, are we?' he hissed, unimpressed. Still, I'm glad the music and the mechanics landed for you—it's the sort of thing that makes telling him to shut up worth it.
Stunning, KZ! If only all dictionaries were so poignant (and came with their own playlist).
Then I'd spend more time weeping over words than actually using them.
And thank you Simon. I'm glad that it resonates :)
You pierced my heart and soul on this one. I'm sitting here in tears right now; but in a good way. Of course, my father wanted a boy instead of a girl though I didn't disappoint him. Any time he was outside working on the car I was right beside him even before I could see over the hood. You had to be at least 4 feet tall to see over the hood back in those days. He taught me everything about working on cars, each of the tools and how much torque to use for certain engines. My cousin and uncles also taught me as a teen.
In my Sophomore year of high school I took auto mechanics; not only was I the only girl in class, but I had the highest grades and I was the only one allowed to work on the original school car and got it running again. (Yes I became the teacher's pet lol). My mother had to write a letter to the school giving her permission for me to take the class because I'm a girl; she told them that it was discriminatory and ludicrous.
My father taught me how to take apart engines and put them back together; we did that with his 69 Mustang GT Fastback over that next summer in 90 degree heat. *Side note: Never take apart a manual transmission in direct sunlight on black top in that kind of heat, no matter how well hydrated you keep yourself.
We had a lot of good memories despite the harsh ones and the good ones are the ones I try to hold onto. When I found out he passed away in 2014 I was devastated; it was like part of my world collapsed. Thank you so very much for bringing him back to life for me through this. You have no idea how humbled and grateful I am to you!
Hey Raven, how your words moved me. Isn’t it something, the way our fathers leave their fingerprints on our lives, not just in the way they taught us to tighten a bolt or rebuild an engine, but in the way they taught us to be brave? Your story - your father’s Mustang, the auto shop, the heat of that blacktop - it’s all so alive, so full of love and grit.
I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m also so grateful you had him, that he gave you those tools, those memories, that unshakable pride in being his daughter. Grief is the price we pay for love, and your love for him shines so brightly in your words. Thank you for letting me be a small part of that. Keep holding on to those memories, because they're not just memories- they’re proof of how much he loved you, and how much you loved him back.
Even better, whenever you're ready, write about it - I'll bring my best pair of ears to listen to it.
I'm in awe of your writing Kuriakin!!!!
Thank you Linda! your words mean so much, truly. If I could, I’d bottle that awe and save it for the days when writing feels like wrestling with a very stubborn sentence. Your encouragement reminds me why I do this, and I’m grateful to share the journey with writer-readers like you. Here’s to more stories, more connection, and maybe just a few fewer stubborn sentences!
Beautiful, beautiful piece Kuriakin. So poetic and poignant, with lessons of a lifetime weaved in so artfully. Thank you for writing this, and honored to have played even the tiniest part in your journey.
Thank you so much—your words feel like a warm hug disguised as a comment, and I’m not quite sure how to respond without turning into an emotional puddle. Poetic and poignant? Artfully weaved? You’re making me wonder if I somehow bribed the muse and forgot about it.
But truly, the honor is mine. Every tiny part—whether it’s feedback, encouragement, or simply sharing the same space in this writing journey—matters more than you know. Thank you for seeing the lessons, the layers, and maybe even the humor hiding in the folds. I hope the piece did justice to the journey we’re all on, and I’m endlessly grateful you’re a part of mine.
🫠 🫠
Sending big, warm, transcontinental hugs your way!
You weaved a beautiful tapestry of heartfelt moments with definitions of mundane words and phrases to take me on a poignant journey about the spoken and unspoken sacrifices of our fathers. The best essay of Write of Passage.
Thank you for such a generous and moving comment—it’s the sort of praise that makes me wonder if I should retire now, undefeated, and live out my days misplacing brioche buns. But seriously, your words feel like they belong in their own essay, maybe something called The Best Comment of Write of Passage.
I’m glad the mundane words worked their magic. They remind me that it’s the small, overlooked things that often carry the most weight—like the way fathers teach us love through actions rather than words, or how a phantom rattle can summon both laughter and legacy. Thank you for seeing the heart in the piece; it means more than I can fit into a definition.
Now, I’ll be over here, googling “how to graciously respond to being called the best without fainting.
Kuriakin, holy shit. This is so good. What a beautiful way to illustrate your relationship with your father.
Wow, thank you! Considering I was stitching together ransom notes... I was aiming for 'moderately coherent'... so 'holy shit' is truly a high praise. A career milestone, even. But truly, your words mean a lot to me.
Please keep writing!
Felt something in my throat when I got to "I break my body so you won’t have to break yours.”. Amazing piece and a refreshing structure!
Thank you for such a heartfelt comment—it's not every day you hear your writing has caused a physical reaction, and I mean that in the best way possible! That line holds a lot for me, so knowing it resonated with you feels like sharing a moment across the page.
You absolutely had me with phantom raddle: "I call over my father, but of course, Mr. Pavlov goes silent. “There,” I insist, waving frantically in the general direction of the engine as my father looks at me with the expression of someone who just discovered their child might be unwell."
I can picture little you sticking out your hand SO EMPHATICALLY and fully believing that your father could fix it
Oh, I was emphatic, all right—hand outstretched like a tiny Shakespearean actor performing The Tragedy of the Phantom Rattle. Thank you for this—it’s a comfort to know that even my childhood theatrics have found an audience.
Well done, Kuriakin! A unique way of telling a deeply personal and meaningful story. Thanks for sharing this with the world.
To think this whole thing started as an elaborate attempt to avoid crafting transition statements.… and yet here we are, calling it 'unique storytelling.' 😬
Thank you for the kind words Harrison!
Loved this narrative and I tip my hat to your dad who gave you the foundation and push to do great things. It's a touching reminder that we stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before us. Thank you for sharing this touching story.
This is one of the most poignant stories I have ever read. I love your father’s twinkling eyes and humble wisdom. I love the imagery of the chicken dance and the endless sea and sky. And I love how you have alchemized your experience into moving images on the page.
As wife and mom to two mechanically inclined car enthusiasts, I could picture my guys in the garage working, teaching, learning, disagreeing, arguing, and loving. This piece is a testament to one of the most endearing relationships between father and son. Thank you for sharing it with us.
I love the way you structured this as a descending list of definitions and pivoted the meaning of each on its head. Such a beautiful way to show how our relationship and understanding of words is so based on our own unique experiences.
I am undone.
I read this the day before Thanksgiving here in the States and the wound of missing my beautiful father, an engineer in his own right, bleeding anew.
What a beautiful love letter to your papa, to the love that built you, dancing wrench by dancing wrench.
And placing Arvo Part at the beginning of the playlist ~ haunting.
Both ink and engine oil flow in your veins. They need not be mutually exclusive.
Never stop writing. 🙏🏻💙💚🦋