Envisage: 1980-1993. Summers in Torrance, California. He would always come walking along the grass while I was shooting baskets in Dale’s driveway or slink past me while I sat on the stoop waiting for Brian to come out. He would shuffle past with a nod, an awkward wave, or simply just put up both of his hands into the air with a smile. He was simplicity incarnate. He gardened, built things, walked, stared up at the sky, read and not once did he ever raise his voice or put anything negative out into the day. He had been in an internment camp during WWII and not once did he ever complain about anything. On father and son days, he’d see me standing there alone and would tuck me under his arm and claim me as his own. Fishing trips, he’d grab my pole before I knew what to do with it and be tying the line on with the lure. Dinners, he would be sliding a japanese bowl of rice and seaweed and meats in front of me on a table before he even asked if I were hungry. Be it skateboard, bicycle, first car, second car. He would circle each thing and inspect them to make sure they were safe. When I graduated from High School, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said “good, good, getting old Stanley.” I don’t think I ever had more than one or two sentence conversations with him before he’d walk away to another room. I didn’t go to his funeral because I couldn’t handle him not existing. Parts of me to this day still think he’s going to be walking by whenever I’m there on that driveway in Los Angeles. He was like a second father to me and I owe the man mountains. Reminders on the nuances of being present and tender while dedicated to all things resembling the implicit. A brilliant man, that Mr. Imahori.