It was he who fought for it to stay upstairs, disrupting the ‘nice’ furniture. Its left rocker had loosened, and its right rocker had been tied back with twine.

It would go ka-thunk when

My father would sit and listen, back turned and consumed in something in

such a way that would make you question if he really heard you
When you asked him everything.

(It was then that his face would contort, saturated in emotions that proved you wrong;
He heard you, and he hurt with you,
    Slow)

I sat in the chair and felt its strange embrace—
Strange,
To sit in silence, back against the leather and feather-filled couches turned to face each other.
Strange to 
                   struggle with connection
With the man who created you.
I felt it rude to sit in silence. So I listened to the music that he would have probably liked;
Bizet,
The composer we would listen to when I was trying to learn and
He was trying to remember how to say what he meant.
         Amour;  Amoor-uh

His classical French accent, it was there, too
In the final chorus.