Parent

Work has won him over.

He is no alcoholic—rather,

a workaholic.

I ask him what he would

like for Christmas: 

he declines.

I ask him the cake’s flavor

for his birthday:

he says any.

I tell him that I forgot

to say “Happy Father’s Day:”

he says it’s fine.

My dad, strongest in

the mind yet softest in

the heart.

Child

We went for a walk

in Juniper Park.

He drove us there, 

just us two, since

Mom had refused.

“You might as well

bring your bike,” he 

adds as we were leaving

the apartment.

“But, I don’t know how

to ride it,” I blurted,

never, in actuality, 

wanting to ride it since

I had found it sort of

scary. 

“We’ll learn it together.”

But, just the other day

you were mad at me for

getting my times table 

wrong. I didn’t want

to upset you again.

I still remember the slope

where you first taught me

how to ride my four-wheeler.

You, for once, had patience.

I thought the bike was scary.

You told me to just hold on.

I held on, and eventually I

got the hang of things.

Ten years later, I’m sitting

here, at my desk, with you

in the living room.

I still don’t know how to

communicate with you,

yet the smaller things in life

now make sense.

You told me not to

worry about Mom’s

reaction to a bad test

grade because you

would defend me.

You enticed me to

try seafood for the 

first time with Legos

because you cared 

about my health.

You were always there

to pick me up from school

whenever I felt sick or

uncomfortable.

You were there for me,

always stepping out of that

desk, whenever it came to 

me.