Mom tells it like this: 9:42 on a June night, the whole ward asleep, and you carried me to the window before I was an hour old — “so she knows where she lives,” you said. You have been pointing things out to me ever since. Cassiopeia. Brake lights. When to walk away from a bad deal.
I looked up what the sky was doing over the hospital that night. It was doing this.
Thirty-two years of you being the steadiest thing under these stars. They kept their place, Dad. So did you.
Happy Father’s Day.
— Maya
