He is . . .

He is the six-year-old boy who stood and gazed in wonder as weird buildings receded from view and a bridge passed overhead, both excited and scared at the unknown prospects of life in a new country.

He is the big brother who held small trembling hands and told his younger brothers everything would be all right as his mother and father struggled to maintain their marriage.

He is the son who forfeited life with his brothers, who said good-bye to his mother and her new husband, and chose to live a solitary life with his father.

He is the young man with polished shoes and a buttoned down jacket who served his new country with pride.

He is the unemployed man walking from factory to factory seeking work, seeking monetary reward for a job well done, seeking a meaningful existence.

He is the friend who arrives first when a helping hand is needed.

He is the boyfriend bearing hand-picked flowers in support of three little words.

He is the nervous bridegroom patiently waiting to catch that first glimpse of the other half of his heart as she entered the church and walked towards her future.

He is the new father, speechless at the wonder of life, laughing and crying all at once, as he cradles his newborn daughter.

He is the devoted father who taught his children to read and write, giving them a head start in life the only way he knew how.

He is the loving husband who, even after 30 years, still prefers his wife’s company above anyone else’s.

He is my compass, my rock, my love, my life, my heart, my head, my friend.

He is my past, my present, my destiny.

He is . . .

My story.

In response to the WordPress Daily Prompt  – Do or Die.