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[27 Jun 2007|10:24pm] |
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``To his peers, he is royalty. To his friends, he is king. To family, he is a monarch who rules with an iron fist. To me, his crimson cape flutters in the wind as heroically as he stands. There's a charm about him that makes him the life of a party, a certain something which sets him apart from the others. His hands held me up as I walked for the very first time. They might've been softer back then. Now they're full of wisdom and age, hardened by the long hours of hard work he'd endure to make sure I never went to bed hungry. To make sure there were clothes on my back and shelter over my head. He never sought praise, or thanks, or reward for the blood, sweat, and tears shed. And I wonder if I'll ever be too late to do so. His health sinks, his hands ache, and my heart hurts in the process. I worry. I wonder. When it's my turn to take care of him, then it'll be my hands that hold him up, it'll be my hands that'll endure the same long hours of hard work because he taught me the value of such a thing. Although his iron fist has rusted some and his cape has aged and gently tattered - he is still royalty to his peers, and king to his friends. But to me, he is my hero. He is my father.``
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