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Desk
Through the pane gleamed his desk,
nestled flatly in the living room corner. There
was dust on the lamp, on the piles of paper; his office
chair, hardly suitable for the aesthetic of any office,
crinkled with worn leather; his laptop, steaming with
a prolonged fuse, always by his side; his glasses,
bouncing off visuals from his laptop screen, lamp to
his left, laptop in the middle, paper to his right.
My dad, strongest in the mind
yet softest in the heart.
Eleven years ago,
we went for a walk in Juniper
Park—I (on my bicycle) and
you (in your faithful Nike Roshes).
You drove us there, just us two,
since Mom had declined to come.
But just the other day, you got
mad at me for getting my times tables
wrong. You seemed genuine, and I didn’t
want to upset you again.
By the hills, under the sun,
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 hold on.
I held on, and eventually I
got the hang of things.
Eleven years later,
I’m still holding on.
I hold on to my words,
not knowing if my next sentence
would lead to a repetition
of past differences.
I hold on to my memories with
you, not knowing if my next memory
is of good or of bad.
I hold on to my image, forever
will I remember, your first desk,
the temporary of red rocking chair,
or your second desk, the university
in which you used to take me to
on the weekends, or your third desk,
the one I see you in now, just
two rooms across from me.
No matter what, you were always
there, stepping out of that desk
whenever it came to me.
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