I told you not to crack your knuckles- your joints would be bad when you got older and you wouldn’t be able to play cello or piano. “Stop cracking your knuckles!” I’d say.
I told you to wear ear plugs when you played with a full band in small venues like Arlene’s Grocery. “You’re a musician- you don’t want to lose your hearing!”
I told you not to get a tattoo because it would look silly when you were an old man. “Think about a wrinkly tattoo on an eighty year old man,” I said. “Plus, it’s dangerous.”
I warned you about crossing the busy street in front of our apartment, or jaywalking in the city- which you did so gracefully.
I heard on the news about someone falling through one of those metal grates on the city sidewalks and warned you about that. “Please step over those!”
I told you to walk quickly under the scaffolding in the city after there were a few incidents of scaffolding and cranes collapsing.
I think I literally prayed sometimes while you were lifting our huge window air conditioner out of our old apartment. I didn’t want you to drop it and I didn’t want it to fall on you.
“Please just ignore them, don’t start anything,” I’d implore you when you thought men on crowded subways were picking fights with you.
I read an article about Asian-americans being more prone to diabetes because of the American diet being so different from theirs. “We have to be careful- I’m mixing brown rice in with the white rice,” I proclaimed.
“We have to start doing more cardio,” I’d say. “I exercise every day!” you’d say proudly referring to your pushups you’d do at night on our bedroom floor. “No, for your heart…we have to do more exercise.”
The last words I spoke to you on July 5th, 2010:
Take care of yourself.
I love you Dan.