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.