My Father's

sentiments fit into a small box.
A small wooden box.
An old small wooden box.

Squatting on the marble floor
Boxes and lugage all around him
because we're moving out.
He's wearing a red fisherman's hat for some reason
Soft and floppy edges
It covers his ears
Frames his face
When he laughs
Nothing else distracts the smile lines that highlight his face.

"Do you remember?"
Holds out a small notebook
I don't.
He opens it.
"dearest daddy"
I remember now.
A fathers' day gift.
Years ago.
On each page is a reason why
I love him

He has kept it.
I didn't expect him to.
My father never shows his heart.
Except on nights like these
and then I love him more.

"Look".
It's a gold ring
"It was your earring"
I haven't worn that earring since-
only little girls wear these earrings.
It's just a single earring.
He kept it all the same.
He throws it into the old small wooden box.

"Do you know what this is?"
"Yes, yes. It's a top."
And I am proud of myself for remembering.
"No. It's a Gyroscope."
[oh.]
Ships use it, he tells me,
because it never falters.
"It's rusty now", he remarks.

"Do you wear watches?"
Nope
"This one still can be used. I haven't worn it for so long, didn't even know it ran out of batt".
I look away for a moment, admiring my freshly painted maybelline nails.
I look up; he's standing beside me with three watches.

"Do you see this one?
I keep it because it's the first one your mommy bought me"
and all of a sudden I'm a young child again, back in our bishan home.
daddy's watch, that was always on his wrist.
I never even realised it has left.
I never knew daddy loves mommy like this.
Mommy always says he has no romance.
If this isn't romantic, I don't know what is.
Why does he hide this part of himself so away?
If I hadn't been present at that table, if I had been living my own world back in eusoff hall, I'd have missed this, daddy'd have kept his heart alone.

His provisional driving liscense.
He has kept his provisonal driving liscence.
The army knife from his ocs days.
Foreign currencies from around the world;
daddy and I promise to frame them up at the new house.

All of my daddy's heart-things fits into one box.
Why is his love shown through acts.
Quiet silent acts done at night.
That no one sees.
The settling of bills.
The payment of mortages.
The ironing done at 2am in the morning.

The failed business ventures.
The debts chalked up.
Why is he so silent and stoic.
Why is his heart in that one small old wooden box.
It should be cast in gold, wrought with the most elaborate fittings, filled with the most intrinsic gifts.
I do not understand.
Where is the poet's resolution,
the peace of heart I am supposed to find.

Why does it seem that only God and I see,
God who withholds my daddy's reward
and I, with my third coat of blood red nails.