My father wore wire-rimmed glasses, the local doctor. It is said I looked like him: full-faced, stocky, broad-shouldered, small-sculpted hands from ancient tribe. I barely remember this: my father put me in an infant seat and rode me around with him on his bicycle. Perhaps visiting patients or relatives. When he died, I had his picture close to me. He wore his glasses; he looked intellectual. After war, we moved and moved. From Taegu to Seoul, from house to house in Seoul, from rooms to rooms. Each time we travel, one less object followed. One object was left behind. I was too young to be sad about lost objects. Later, it is only now I