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A Walk in the Park
pt. one
my father
has always been my father,
but on most days,
he is not my father;
he is the breadwinner
of this family.
today, he is still
the breadwinner
of my family.
instead of spending time
with his family,
he is driving three hours
to and from—
underneath the sun’s
unforgiving rays
in a white car
nissan or not—
to buy trees
so that the house he has been
trying to sell
(for almost a year)
will sell
& finally,
there will be money
flowing through our hands
again.
pt. two
my mother likes to tell me
my father
has always been my father.
when i was younger,
he bathed me,
dressed me,
took the examination thrice
to come to a foreign world.
i don’t remember them,
nor him,
though.
not the afternoon walks in the park,
neither the lives of flowers i ended early
so i could gift them to him,
nor the stroller with my sister inside that
i wanted to push but
my father said no.
(all at the age of 2 < x < 6.)
one day, my father called us all
into the living room.
then, he pressed a button &
the television screen came alive.
as old videos (on DVDs) stirred up memories
i'd long forgotten,
i watched
a young girl
walk through fields of colors.
at one point, she stumbled &
lost her balance.
but she didn't fall because
the man walking next to her
held on to her.
he held her tiny, crumpled fist
in his hand.
many years later, i
watched the girl i was
many years before.
i watched my father
be the father
my mother always said he was.
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