In his youth,
Dad played some cord instruments.
His sisters sang too.
Mom listened and amused herself.
Mom was different!
In his youth, Dad would paint
in a room
with an easel and paints.
And Mom would look and keep quiet.
Mom was different!
Till one day
when no one in our family
sang anymore,
no one was happy anymore.
Mom would sell things from the house,
even the hand-made paintings
and kept quiet.
Dad often would sob.
Mom was different!
And because she was different,
we would then have
food to eat.
That image stayed with me from the past:
Father weeping, mother being quiet
and me crying
seeing the tears of my father.