His smile and sob – in exact shape – live on my face. Alter egos of his tension loiter in my mind. My big toes – like the tortoises’ heads – are perfect imitations. The same smell of sweat from my armpits rouses his presence. The sparks within my skull are from his furnace. His gene reflects in my word and deed. As I fumble in the snag, light falls from his antique lantern. I often see him on the pavement of my midnight dream. What he dreamed of me, I dream of my children. When death had chewed my dad, some eternal fragments fell out of its mouth. First printed in Moon Pigeon, US.