Father is right there, a pipe in his mouth, his face covered with wrinkles. As he turns his head, he smiles in a way that calms me. Then he tousles my hair.
The sun is shining and I’m sitting on father’s shoulders, high up in the air, laughing happily. Back then, I didn’t know that my laughter was my father’s happiness.
I don’t want to see his strong, steady hands slowly grow thin and wrinkled….
remember when you raised your hand at me, sir, and I glared back furiously. I fought back, then left and slammed the door. I never saw your trembling body, and the look of disappointment in your eyes.
One rainy evening, I was sick in bed. I opened my blurry eyes to see you, your hair white, prostrating in front of the statues of the gods, praying for me to be restored to health. You bustled about, you sold everything, all to make sure that I recovered properly.
When I saw that, my hands started to shake, and my heart tore. I wanted to open my mouth and say… father, I was wrong.