It's June the 9th— I'm pensive about having a figure so significant.
I've watched my dad pull an engine from a Nissan Sunny, alone— fix it, reinstall it, alone.
I've watched my dad shirtless every morning, praying in tongues. We never owned a rooster, never needed an alarm— only my dad's voice, praying in tongues.
When my dad speaks, I fall silent. I become a fool— a listening fool.
I've watched my dad move shrewdly: once, when school opened but money wouldn't stretch, he bought old batteries, sold them as scrap the same day— so I could pay my fees.
I'm pensive about having a figure so significant.
I'm baffled by his patience. He sits in rooms thick with noise, conversations crashing over each other, but barely speaks— still, patient.