A small boy with dark eyes
grew to dream, and invent.

Toys for the children of the
world, and for us, your own.

What began as a limp
took over your whole body,
robbing the light inside you.

Before it did, one winter
evening, you taught me
to ice skate. Around and
around we went, on
the small circle of our
frozen swimming pool.

My mother called us
in for dinner. Usually
obedient, I pretended
not to hear. Something
told my young heart
that this would never
happen again. Around
and around we went,
father and daughter.

You gave us your
native land, and your
vision that invention
could create a life.

The last time I saw
you, it was to feed
you a favorite dish.

As I turned back  
from the open door,
your eyes met mine.
A steady, direct
unfamiliar look.

It was good-bye.

There was nothing left
unfinished between us.