A poem
He still goes quiet passing the taxi stand,
still nine years old somewhere inside,
waiting for a man who was steady on the expressway,
just going the wrong way.
He has learned to watch for signs —
his father's face in the rearview mirror,
full of concentration,
his mother's voice filling the car from abroad,
two exits gone,
late for tuition,
and him, in the backseat,
already knowing.
So when his father folds himself onto the floor one evening,
no phone, no agenda,
picks up the controller, blur and earnest,
and says
"Eh, how to play ah?" —
he feels something loosen.
Finally.
They get stuck almost immediately.
He opens an app, types quietly
while his father squints at the screen.
How do we find the way out?
It responds. Steady. Patient.
No memory of every wrong turn before this one.
memory off.