A busy, coffee-smelling Sunday morning
With noisy banters while cooking and dining
Natural gatherings with our parents
A time to fix the little cracks and bents

But alas, my father is under the soil
While mother uses her time to toil
And I am left in my own devices
Do try to imagine how everyday is

And oh, please try to remember albeit
I am not a sad child at all, at least not yet
For I always reason, not in deceit,
That my family isn't broken, just incomplete