Wedding Anniversary

For: My Wife

November 20, 2011
My master: shackles never shown as soft
until this golden bond enslaved this wrist.
Amid my brightest hours, the cuff embossed
a whitened ridge where sun divorced my skin.

What once was darkest, purest skin, now sends
a warning: all who pass this thrall, the Queen
commands respect. The hearts of lonely men
can find a peace, but sacrifice the free.

Engraved upon my shackle reads, "fin,"
and when I dared to ask the Queen to dance,
a lucid diamond weighed upon her limb.
Some year ago, recalled, we traded vows,

For I'm a King and serf, and she a Queen and wife:
As lords and grunts, we're both enshrined for life.

November 20, 2010
I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Vows to My Wife

I think of you and see your subtleties.
Your laugh at "taco hugs," my dancing shows.
Your often overlooked ability
To listen to my shouted anecdotes.

And from these small affections choices rose:
To live in San Jose, to dream as one.
To know our passing summer days unfold
In winter's basket, each delight in turn.

And every night, when sleep has caught your eye,
I come inside and whisper sweetest dreams:
"That though I've held another's hand, your smile,
Forever trust, is all of which I dream."

These words, tattooed by faith, are promises:
The greatest day of life has yet to come.

Happy Birthday, America

I can tell it's the Fourth without looking at the calendar. The smell of bbq traipsing over summer green lawns. Plywood bunkers selling Roman Candles in a dusty field. And of course, hot dog buns on display in the Safeway parking lot.

To be honest, I really like America's birthday. Sure, I'm not David McCullough, and I don't even like going on picnics. But, I celebrate the Fourth the only way I know how: I sit at home and eat popsicles watching Seinfeld reruns...not as a British subject.

But of course, some fool had to go and mess it up. A man grilling on his back patio set off the sprinkler system in my building. The annoyingly loud, putting-fireworks-to-shame siren blared in my building for 2 hours. I was forced to eat my Big Stick on a park bench.

I'm not a manly bbq chef like Bobby Flay, but at least I understand my shortcoming. I don't douse my charcoal in lighter fluid, and I certainly don't ruin my neighbors holiday weekend by forcing them out of their homes.

Watching my neighbors evacuate the building, I counted 38 people. That's 38 people's prime relaxation hours destroyed by one man's bbq ego. Making matters worse, the unapologetic buffoon came outside in a tacky red, white, and blue apron.

I love the Fourth, but American flags are not pants. The date on the calendar doesn't automatically make people good outdoor cooks. And mylar balloons are not meant to be eagle-shaped. Come on people; let's give America a tasteful birthday without fire-related accidents.

Paranoia

I didn't forget it was April Fools Day. I woke up cautiously, checking the floor before I stepped out of bed. I smelled each of my shower liquids before lathering them on my body. I read all of my emails carefully before responding.

But even with my prank alert on high, nothing could prepare me for the most dangerous pranksters of all: the kids.

It started innocently enough with one of my girl students. "Oh my god!" She shouts at the end of the standardized test. "I bubbled all the answers in the wrong section!" The teacher in me freaked out, worrying that erasing all the bubbles would be a daunting task; the shadows of lead would still leak through and ruin her machine-corrected answer sheet.

Of course, April Fools.

I laughed it off. It really was pretty funny, and I appreciated that the students weren't maliciously laughing at my "freak out" face...at least I hope it wasn't malicious.

Then things got out of hand. Before fourth period, one kid burst in the classroom out of breath, saying someone had stolen his backpack. I popped out my seat to go comfort the distraught child, only to have him giggle through my sympathy.

After that, the day just went downhill. Every time a student asked for anything, or told me anything, I suspected foul play.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" Umm, no? I'd rather you piss yourself than be made another fool.

"I forgot my homework." SOL. Pull it out or you fail.

"My stomach hurts." Yeah right. You'll have to crap blood before I let you go to the nurse.

Usually this is a fun holiday, but today's paranoia just made me a grumpy teacher. I could feel the frown lines burn onto my usually jovial face.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...damn.

St. Patrick's Uniform

I feel bad for my students because they have school uniforms. Especially on days like today: St. Patrick's day.

The students and their uniforms looked more drab and lifeless than ever. Their navy pants were faded and un-festive from repeat washings. The white polos were tinged gray around the collars from sweat. School policy censored the shamrock shirts and emerald earrings.

But when I tried to voice this dismay to my older students, one cheerfully replied, "Don't worry, I got my green in." He revealed a green sock, secretly grinning at me from beneath his frayed pant leg. I smiled.

I guess if you really want it, the leprechaun finds his way in.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Romance

I haven't worn a tie for you in four years,
and $49.99 buys a week's groceries, not a dozen roses.
The stub from our third date downtown
went through the wash.
And the only sounds from our bedroom
are my eyelashes scraping the pillow
as I fall asleep beside you.

Though the hanger has ruined your red dress,
though I watch TV as you say goodnight,
I'll kiss you from post-its that read:
I wish every night was taco night.

Happy Birthday, Judo Rhapsode!

I created this blog one year ago today. It's been fun. My gratitude to all my readers. I'm not sure how many of you there are, but I appreciate the comments online and in person. Thank you.

I'm Driving. Calm Down.

It's my sweetheart's birthday today, and I decided to get her a balloon. A big one. There's something about balloons that encapsulate the joy of a celebration. Balloons may deflate, but there is something charming about a half-floating balloon, dancing in the apartment air currents and corners.

Safeway just wouldn't do; Safeway balloons are for your cousin's baby shower. No, sweetheart balloons are the most romantic when purchased from garish party stores. When the display balloons have four-digit ID numbers, then you've got the right store.

The only problem with fancy balloons? They are too big in the back seat of the car. It's like carpooling with some floating children whose overactive ribbon fingertips tickle your face. You put your car in reverse, and their faces block the rear window. And when you reach in back to calm them down, you dislocate your shoulder and turn the wheel too soon scraping your left headlight on a BMW fender. For so much fun, balloons are quite dangerous.

It was worth it though. She smiled at her funny balloon. And when we came home from dinner, giant Mylar Hello Kitty, floating aimlessly, greeted me with an ethereal curtsy.

Happy New Year!

Are you fully aware right now?
What do you mean?
Meaning, do you think you'll remember this in, say, ten years? This moment.
Like, this conversation with you?
Yeah.
Of course. I'll remember
this. Why wouldn't I?
I'm not sure. How old are you?
Thirteen.
Yeah. I remember being thirteen, but I don't remember a single, particular moment. I have feelings, maybe echoes of thirteen, but I don't remember any moments like this.
Call me in ten years; I bet I'll remember.
Maybe you're just smarter than me.

Perhaps it was a strange conversation to have with a middle-school student during lunch break, but I couldn't help it. That particularly cloudy day in early December, all I could think about was how I always feel hyper, maybe even, super cognizant of my life, but, inevitably, I can only vividly remember one week prior.

It's a strange idea that my presence is so malleable, so ephemeral. Like when you daydream while you're reading: the words in and out, just out of phase with the vibrations of your memory.

2009 sinks beneath the timeline horizon like a whale going back under the surface. Elegance, beauty, softness gone, existing somewhere else. A few sharp memories of pain stand out in '09. A few honeyed instances make me smile. But largely, the entire year floats somewhere out of sight.

Maybe it's just because it's December 31st. Or maybe I should take more ginkgo.

Goodbye, 2009.

Belief

I never had a traumatizing, "Santa-isn't real" experience. I never found the fluffy red suit under my father's bed. I never saw my mom placing the presents under the tree.

There were clues and inklings that, over time, compiled into a general disbelief in Santa. My step-father's swooping letters looked eerily like Santa's festive signature. I once received a Santa gift that was left off the letter I sent him. And as I got older, Santa became an object of ridicule in the school yard; I would nod along, adding a "Santa's hella fake" even though the question still rested, unresolved, in my Christmas spirit.

And I believed my way through childhood never having the one definitive destruction that so many of my peers experienced.

On a Christmas Eve walk with my mother today, she reminded me (like she does every year) to "go to bed early so Santa can come and deliver his gifts." There was a coy smile on her face, almost a flirtation, and she radiated holiday energy like mistletoe in a foyer. Though she and I both knew my true belief in Santa faded long ago, she still made efforts, perhaps for her own nostalgia, to have fun with the mystique and Romance of Santa.

As a 25 year old, I've learned to live life without Santa Claus, but I've also learned to see Mom as a special mom. All those years, she worked hard preserve a happy belief inside me. She thought quickly, and she acted quickly to quell any potential threats to my innocent holiday spirit. Though I never give her credit for being smart, she outsmarted me for years. Though she is not religious, she gave me faith in Santa.

And on December 18th, the last day before winter break, two of my 13-year-old students, bordering on the edge of their Santa beliefs, were arguing about Santa. Their voices climbed exponentially, and each stubbornly gripped their mutually exclusive viewpoints on Santa's existence. I was packing my desk for the two-week break when they came to me with "What do you think?" about the subject. All I could do was smile, coyly, and radiate holiday spirit as I replied, "Go to bed early and see."

Unfinished Dreams

This weekend and last, 3 University of California campuses held ceremonies which conferred honorary degrees to people of Japanese decent whose collegiate education was derailed by the Japanese Internment during World War II.

Today, I was lucky enough to attend the ceremony at UC Berkeley.

http://honorary.universityofcalifornia.edu/ Take some time to watch the videos; they are worth the few minutes.

I also had the privilege of attending a luncheon for the students (who are now around 80-90 years old) where I was able to see them as people rather than specks from the Haas Pavilion bleachers. I didn't know any of them personally, so I hovered around the edges of the ballroom watching and listening. Many of the recipients of the honorary degrees came with their families, who loyally assisted by walking and wheeling their honorees around the ballroom. One woman, dispersed by the Internment, flew back to college from Texas to receive her degree.

These Nisei (second-generation Japanese Americans) students had their educations interrupted by war and wartime hysteria. Some said they continued their studies elsewhere, but most others said the diaspora after the Internment permanently altered their professional dreams.

And in their sagging eyes and sun-blotched skin, I saw my Nisei grandmother. Just a few miles away in Oakland, she said she'd rather stay home and watch my dog as I went to the event.

Though she did not go to college, I know her intent was to become a nurse. But the Internment altered those plans, and, moving to Minnesota after Topaz, she traded her white gloves for black-stained hands from the acid of peeling tomatoes.

After the ceremony, I went back to her house and told her about the day. I tried to tell her how strange and surreal it was. About how I've never seen so many Japanese honored before. But for all my excitement and awe, she returned a genuine but terse, "That's nice."

For a participant of the Internment, she rarely speaks of it; and in return, neither do I. All I could do was write this blog for her, even though I know she'll never read it.

I may not become a nurse, Grandma, but I'll walk your unfinished dreams to lucid sunlight.

Crafts, Cats, and Dogs

Today was the Humane Society, Silicon Valley's Animal Arts Craft Faire. Vendors sold adorable animal-related arts and crafts. There were home-made dog treats, hand-made chew toys, and decadent cat trees. There was live music, a food court, and activities for children.






And in case the humans wanted to shop unencumbered, there was a "Dog Valet" who would walk your dog while you shopped. That's my dog Pancake on the left with valet Judy.







The Humane Society moved to a new location in April, and the facility is amazing. Despite it being an animal shelter, everything looked immaculate. The dogs had giant cots covered with blankets, and each kennel was considerately filled with two dogs so they could run and play. The cats didn't have cages, but "condos" where mini-sofas and climbing trees faced large windows flooding the apartment with nap-able sunlight. There was even a special section for rabbit adoption.












The walls were covered with paintings and photographs of adopted pets' success stories that found new homes. The fountain at the main entrance captured the free spirit of a dog jumping into a lake with a cautious cat observing from above.

And while the Humane Society's new facility is simply amazing, the stars of show were the animals up for adoption. Going to an event like this, I mustered all my fortitude to not return with another dog. But when I got there, I saw so many animals that I wanted to take home. One Chihuahua mix in particular, Chispita, captured my heart. I watched her through the window, her brown ears half-folded over her apple-shaped head. She was calm despite the gangs of people traipsing past her. She was older, almost 10 years old, and I imagined her being passed-up for the younger, more-spry dogs.


But alas, I returned home with only one dog, my constant companion Pancake. I found myself whispering to him. I wouldn't want another dog so badly if you weren't such a great dog.

He curled up on my lap, and we watched tv together.

Please visit the Humane Society's webpage. Maybe you can adopt Chispita; she's a dear.

Black Friday

The greatest shopping day of the year isn't great because of the deals; it's great because of the stories. I don't really need a Samsung MP3 player when I have an elite iPod. I don't really need a free Xbox game in exchange for sitting in the cold air for 3 hours. Sure, there are people who truly need the deals in order to make their holiday budget work, but I often spend my Black Fridays in line for some frivolous item, not a money saver.

I do it for the stories. In just one day, I told my Black Friday war story—sitting in line, drinking hot cocoa, fighting for my doorbuster bracelet—to my Grandma, Mom, Dad, my brother, and the guy who works at the Mail Center. I shocked them with the horrific conditions and the bloodshot eyes, and when they are reeling from adrenaline, I roll up my sleeve and show the scars and spoils of war.

And like all great war stories, there isn't just one enemy; there are several. The late hour and the long, twisting lines are the obvious foe, fighting you face to face with brute strength. But the cunning foes, your fellow individual shoppers, they are the one who flank you from the side and snipe you with psychological warfare.

Three hours in front of Old Navy, two ladies dangled inane conversations in front of me. Every noun was preceded by a swear-word adjective. Every topic concerned only the boorish riff raff of society. They let their friends cut in line. And to top off their arsenal during the Black Friday war, they blew clouds of cigarette smoke in my face.

I let it slide for an hour, but with my lungs feeling palpably fuzzy from the tobacco smoke, I took action. I asked them to please smoke farther away from the line. They gave me the 'stink eye' and begrudgingly moved their poisonous habit a mere five feet away still drenching me with funk.

I'm sure they weren't bad people. I'm sure they were simply irritable like we all were. I did my best to accommodate their psychological warfare without resorting to physical violence. I was still feeling thankful and positive from Thanksgiving...and, because of that, those ladies should be thankful I didn't knock out all their tar-stained teeth with the curb.

Black Friday. What a great day. What great sales. I'm tired. I'm going to bed now.

Sleepy and Turkey

Here's a tip: Never wear skinny jeans to Thanksgiving dinner. I wore my new dark-wash jeans in hopes that I would look more fit in the Thanksgiving family pictures. It was all for naught: the dining-room table hid my pants in the family portraits, and I had to unbutton my pants to sit on the couch, far from the "fit" image I wanted to project.

So here I am, thankful for the beginning of the holiday season and sleepy from the sugary yams and heavy gravy fermenting in my stomach. I knew I was in trouble when Grandma said, "We have less people than last year, but the turkey is heavier." It was a bittersweet moment of laughter.

My brother is working the 76 Fall Classic in Anaheim. Rebelling against the the warnings of Medical school tearing apart family holidays, my brother had never missed a Thanksgiving in his 7-year medical career, until today.

My brother and I usually have a contest to see who can use a punch to blow out the dinner candles. It was strange and pathetic having that contest with myself, like laughing when you're alone. And thus, Thanksgiving has been more docile this year.

But docile isn't necessarily bad. I spent some quiet time with my grandma looking at Black Friday ads. I took my dog for a nice long walk in the cold Sacramento air. Docile gives me time to reflect and be thankful for nice food and nice family.

Docile doesn't make for the most profound writing, but it's nice to sit with my grandma, watch my brother on TV, and wish the outside world a Happy Thanksgiving.

Community Halloween

The air is crisp like the fallen, anthocyanin leaves. The sharp air frostbites the lining of the lungs, and when exhaled, the warm soul escapes in curls of white breath. The smirking pumpkins take up their sentry positions guarding each home from would-be trespassers. Tonight, children take the streets with masked dreams dripping in melted sugar.

Of the final yearly celebrated holidays in America (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve), Halloween is easily the least important. Halloween isn't a national holiday. Halloween doesn't get a day off from school. Some years, students pile into their classroom donning their freakish facades only to take a fractions quiz. Most years, kids intoxicate themselves on chocolate only to arise hungover and go to school.

And while Halloween is largely branded as a novelty, I find it one of the most generous holidays. While Christmas and Thanksgiving are based on giving and thankfulness, I find people's general spirit surrounding these two holidays is mostly confined to family and friends. There may be a day of volunteering, a food or toy drive here or there, but this is a rare occurrence for most people.

Halloween, on the other hand, unifies the community through generosity of spirit and candy. For the average American, handing out free treats to tens, even hundreds, of anonymous children is considered enjoyable normalcy. I have no evidence, but it seems that more people pass out candy at Halloween than go to soup kitchens on Christmas.

When I was growing up, my step father would spend hundreds of dollars every year on the newest and spookiest decorations for the front of our house. Coupled with the growing amorphous blob from past Halloweens in the attic, each year topped the previous. I remember one year our entire lawn was covered with black tarps serving as the morass turf of a graveyard. In conjunction with the headstones, fog machine, and strobe lights, one kid actually jumped out of his shoe when my step dad jumped out from inside a life-size coffin.

But oddly, his Christmas decorations were always modest in comparison to October 31st. My step dad chose to support and give back to our neighborhood during Halloween, not Christmas. I think he wanted to spend the most time and money on a holiday that put him in direct contact with Trick-or-Treaters rather than the purely aesthetic spectators at Christmas.

And pending a few bad apples who use this holiday for felonious mischief, Halloween seems to be about direct contact with the children and families of the community. While some, like my step dad, want to bring joy through fear, others generously open their doors allowing a puff of cozy air to warm shivering ghosts and goblins on their journey around their neighborhood. Christmas may be the time of giving, but Halloween embodies, for me, the truest sense of community.

Shotsuki

October 9th, two days ago, would have been my grandpa's 91st birthday. All through the September of 2003, he kept saying how he wanted to make it to his birthday. He overshot by two days, just to be on the safe side. But that's how he was: stubborn, loud, and true to his word.

The first few months after his death, the pain felt so visceral, so palpable. But after six years, the throbbing has dulled. When I visit Grandma, I often walk through the house trying to relive the moments of grief. I feel guilty, somehow, that I'm able to visit Grandma and smile.

Even though his house has drastically changed, his workshop in the back of the garage remains largely untouched. Even after all the house cleaning and remodeling, no one in the family has had the courage to remove any of the old mechanic's tools.

In his garage workspace, yellowed masking tape labels display his capitalized handwriting. Pieces of fossilized coal in his metal trays keep the tools from rusting. When my grandma sleeps, she still rests on the left-hand side of the bed, an invisible barrier of his territory corralling her to one side. I now know more of his absence than his presence.

Last week, I looked at his photo at the butsudan. It's a picture of him sitting in a chair at an Extended Stay in Fresno. He about 83 years old in the picture. The echo of his voice, the deep grooves on his fingers, the feeling of listening to one of his stories—these weaken with time, and sterile snapshots usurp my living memories of him. That is the treason of photography.

Today marks the six-year anniversary of my grandfather's passing. I missed the Shotsuki service last week, so this is my repent. This is my way of saying that I still think about you...and that I miss you.

09.09.09

I felt left out of the celebration. Amid the spectacle of this triple 9 date, I was painfully ordinary. I didn't do anything "nine-oriented."

I read a news story about couples to be married at the 99¢ Store with nine guests in attendance. Tim Burton released a movie today entitled "9." And even Sportscenter on ESPN did a "Top 9 Best Plays by Players Wearing the Number 9." The Beatles also understand the magnitude of this date. Not only did the "Beatles: Rock Band" release, but a number of remastered albums hit store shelves today.

Desperately trying to participate in this non-holiday, I thought about going to restaurant and ordering a meal for $9.99 and tipping $9.99, but frugality overtook me. I thought about running nine miles, but I was too tired from work.

I felt a little sad, almost like it was unpatriotic not to appreciate this date. But I guess today is just a regular Wednesday. If people love 09.09.09, what will they do next year on October 10th? Or how about November 11th in two years? Is today really that special? Maybe I'm contributing to the problem by blogging about it, or maybe I'm just jealous I didn't have a special 09.09.09 shirt like one of my students.

Dear reader, how did you celebrate today?

Hibakusha

A summer day, a solitary bomb, a single instant; and Hiroshima was transformed into a raging inferno and a hell on earth. Countless precious lives were tragically lost, and even those who somehow managed to survive have lived in constant fear of radioactivity's grim after effects.
- Takeshi Araki -

You asked me once about your father...

It was a surprise one summer Monday.
Walking to work, I saw him ahead of me.
I craned my neck skyward to see his face:
a Little Boy confessing he was made just for me.

He grabbed my arm and pushed me down.
The grit of the sidewalk tangled in my hair.
The waist of my pants pressed into my lower back.
And even in the early hour, the sidewalk heat burned
a criss-cross pattern on my skin.

He hunched over me, his outer thighs
spread my inner thighs.
My temples were clamped between his wrists.
He lowered his head so his bottom lip
slid along my left ear.
And even in a summer morning,
the yellow whisper lit up the sky—

Surrender.

His word tore my shirt open.
He wet my breasts
with clockwise swirls of his tongue.
The goosebumps around my nipples
swelled into blisters filled with white puss.

And all around, the people pretended not to see.
But I saw their dislocated shadows painted on the ground.

I turned my head away from the vermilion
throbbing between my legs.
The glass of shop windows
were crying tears of ice for me,
and the buildings reached to me
with crimson beams of pity.

When I looked up, he was gone.
I touched my leg where he'd finished.
His thrusts had rubbed my skin loose:
flaps of my leg hung like rugs
from a clothing line.

I propped myself on my elbow
and felt a drop of water from the sky.
I opened my mouth to catch the rain
only to taste charcoal.

You asked me once about your father.

You asked me once
why you look different
from your brother.

You asked me once
to tell you
how you were born.

Fireworks

Daisy hated fireworks. It wasn't that she was particularly unpatriotic. She loved eating 4th-of-July hotdogs that carelessly fell to the floor. And she loved lying by the warm oven as the evening's apple pie browned. It's safe to say that she loved everything about the 4th except for the fireworks.

Around 9 pm, exactly when the navy blue and the ruby orange skies reconciled, Daisy could sense the inevitable. It was the sound, the repeating din of fireworks that drove her insane. She tried her best to cover her ears as she ran around the house screaming, but when one of your hands is actually one of your feet, this is a difficult task.

One year, the fireworks over Kailua Beach started a bit early, and Daisy was still outside. She tried her best, but her phobia and momentum carried her through the screen door into the house. She didn't just rip the mesh—she ripped the screen from its hinges.

I guess I'm a bit like Daisy. I often hope to have bad seats for a fireworks show: that the fireworks actually explode a great distance away from me. I've been to three 4th-of-July shows when the fireworks would explode directly over my head like I was wearing a hat made of igniting firecrackers.

Looking heavenward, the biggest of the explosions expanded wider than my eyes could perceive. It was as if God himself was revealing a part of his own body. The sublimity of the sky mixed with the pounding resonance in my chest made an experience thought-provoking, not celebratory. If a man-made ball of gunpowder could be that terrifying, think how big God would be. Or Satan.

Daisy died of cancer in mid-June 2006. Driving home from the vet, an empty dog bed in the back seat, I thought that the timing of the disease was the one silver lining: she lived thirteen years but only experienced twelve 4th of Julys. Daisy wouldn't need to rampage through the house with a tumor sloshing around in her chest. Daisy hated fireworks. And I guess I do too.

I didn't watch the fireworks that year. I just sat on the couch watching syndicated sitcoms. I listened though. I heard the starting slow cadence of ricocheting pops build into a grand crescendo of machine-gun rounds fired into the air.

I live only a few blocks from the beach, so the sound always shakes the figurines on my shelves, but the evening seemed calm and tranquil—and lonely. I had no one to bark in my ear as I held them, whispering, "Happy birthday, America."

Father's Day (One Day Early)

My brother and I were equally stumped by the question, "what would Dad want for Father's Day?"

My brother suggested getting him a new pair of golf shoes, but my father, like many people, is very particular about his shoes and how they intimately fit his feet. Golf shoes were out.

Our agreed upon meeting time was rolling around, and my brother and I still had nothing but a card for our father. Granted, it was one of those fancy $3+ cards, but we still felt empty-handed. Partly out of laziness and partly out of confusion, we arrived at the Japanese restaurant in San Leandro carrying one blue envelope between us.

After we finished our dinner, we drove into Hayward/Castro Valley looking for a Starbucks. Of course, in today's caffeinated society, this was a fairly easy task.

Readers might not know this, but I grew up in Hayward. I moved to the Central Valley of California when I was in middle school.

We found a Starbucks easily, but it just so happened to be across the street from a restaurant/ice cream parlor from our childhood still called the "Ice Creamery." Dad, my brother, and I decided to forgo the faceless corporation for a nice bowl of nostalgia ice cream.











The three of us closed down the parlor. It was like old times when newly divorced Dad would pick us up for his custody time on Tuesday nights. Ice cream. Video arcades. Dinner out on the town. I felt like I was in elementary school again.

Dinners with my dad and brother are always loud and fun, but today was a reflective moment when I realized how far the three of us have come—as a family. Sometimes it's hard to remember yourself or your family as you were in past; you need a context, a backdrop, or an Ice Creamery.

My brother is a doctor, but he's still the logical son. I am an educator, but I'm still the emotional son. And my father...well, my father is still the moderator dad. And while that may not be as nice as a new pair of golf shoes, I think our Father's Day (one day early) was a success: tonight was an homage to the Tuesday-Night Trio.