My father has a mind of a mathematician, but hands of an artist. When I was younger, he used to gift us with proses and poetry, written in our native Malay language. English, he claimed, simply isn’t able to carry the sentiments that reside within him. Sometimes he painted, other times sketched, but there was never a moment when he wasn’t caught reading; not once is he without a book clutched in his hands. Deep into the night, the soft orange glow from his green table lamp surrounds his being like a halo. What a sight to behold, an image from childhood so crisp that I unfold it from my heart from time to time; it encapsulates him so perfectly. In his heart, kindness blooms and in his soul, songbirds chirp to a melodious tune laden with gentleness.
I wish, with all of my being; if only I am even half the engineer that he is.