The way the letter “r” rumblesfrom the cavern of his throatthrough the top of his teeth, gently,a passing freight train or a farawaythunderstorm. The alchemyof his language: eavesdroppedbecomes ear dropped and flirtingbecomes floating. The way he saysmy mother’s name, soft “th” sculpted solid,syllables ringing clear like notesfrom a gamelan. The way I train my tongueto imitate his, words clumsy and laboredin my imposter mouth. The way the plumbershakes my father’s hand and says, I’ll call youBill instead. The way my teachersrefuse his gaze as they ask meto translate his English into my own.The way he used to rub my backon sleepless nights, his hands crackedinto tectonic plates. The same handsthat sold churros from a cart on the boardwalk.Scrubbed grime out of a movie star’skitchen sink. Loaded boxes of frozen foodinto an eighteen-wheeler truck by moonlight.The same hands that never learned how to usechopsticks. The way he has to ask for a forkwhen we go to our favorite noodle house.The way the waiter says, How spicydo you want your food? and my father replies,Make me cry. The way my father does not speakwhile he eats, bent over the bowlin reverence. The way he taught methat long noodles signifya long life, and to cut themis bad luck. So we slurp them upso loudly, the whole roomstops to look.