She glanced at me only once from her artificial habitat. It was a glorified jungle-gym—a setting more qualified for a toddler than a great ape.  She belonged to the great jungles of Africa. From my left, a man with thin arms and a hanging gut pointed at her rump and cackled out a laugh so despicable I had to turn away.  What tragedy, for an animal so well endowed for nature and life to be caged and ogled at by one so unfit and undeserving. I could do little to hide my shame. I shot my photo quickly, from behind a tree, fearful to accept another glance from the noble cousin across the way—fearful to think too long on the plight of her sitting there till the last of her days.

Every morning that light strikes my eyes, causing me to squint, grunt, stumble, and what ever combination of the three. I rise early in the morning, often to pain at leaving you and the boy behind so early and in such darkness. But I push forward every day when I look back and see you in the glow there, sound asleep, beautiful as ever, and I know what I am to do. I push forward and tie my boots as tight as I can with my sore fingers. I zip my jacket up and sling my backpack on and stretch my sore sides.  And I lean over to kiss you goodbye, and your lips always purse back, and I am given great strength by that moment every day.

We lived there in our little rainy world. It poured incessantly every day and every day we varied from being drenched to just a little. We struggled—going out into the cold world to scratch together a meager living in order to keep our meager dwelling. We watched the moss grow on the trees and the rooftops every autumn and I loved you throughout. I couldn’t live without you, rain or not.  After some years, there is something about the sight of it, growing there—hanging on, that strikes me profoundly.

I often times don’t recognize myself. At times, my face is square and flush—while other times, uneven and squashed. I enjoy my scars and see them as accomplishments, but many times wonder what I would look like without. And then, I often wonder if I am a farce. I try to shrug away the seriousness but it is always there. Am I a good lover? A good husband? Will I be a good father? Am I a good man? I feel an urge to achieve great things, and then I feign my lack of confidence so well that many times I don’t even recognize the lies. I may just be a drunk. A far-off aspirer: to box, to write, to sail—to live. I may have too much fear. I may not be much at all. But I always try to do good. And I will always try for you.