Treasure Island

My dad is kind of crazy sometimes. He can be cranky. He says strange things I do not always understand. And as his daughter, I carry guilt for the anger I took out on him when I was younger, when I was stupid, tired, impatient, and too hurt to understand the way he loved us. But the older I get, the more I see it. I see the hard work. I see how he kept going every day, trying to provide for my mom and me. He did not have some great, glamorous job like the fathers people imagine in movies. He was a plumber. A working man. A tired man. A man who still dreamed of paradise, of vacation, of somewhere beautiful where life could finally feel easy. I cannot give him that paradise yet. So I made this perfume as a small token of it , a place he can hold for a moment. A scent of richness, escape, and the life I wish I could give him. I am sorry, Dad. For all the anger. For all the years I did not understand. For not being good enough in the way I wanted to be. This is Treasure Island. A paradise I made for you.