The happiest memory I have of my father is the first time he took me and my siblings ice-skating at Central Park in Manhattan. I believe I was in the 4th grade; we all received ice skates for Christmas that year. I couldn’t wait to use mine, so I made my father promise to take us ice skating on his next day off. He kept his promise; we went on a Saturday. I remember being very excited as we tied the laces together, and hung the skates over our shoulders. We walked to the park; it was blocks away from where we lived on East 105th Street. My mother did not go with us. My siblings and I laughed and played around on the way to the park, and my father didn’t get upset or impatient with us. It was the first time I had seen him genuinely (outwardly) happy. We arrived, found a spot, and put our skates on. I remember being scared to get on the ice. I stood at the entrance, clung to the wall, and tried to get my balance; my siblings went on to the ice with ease. My father came over, and supported me until I felt comfortable enough to let go and balance myself on the ice. He went around the rink a couple of times with me, and then began playing catch me if you can games to help me forget how unsure I was on the ice. His strategy worked; after a while I felt perfectly comfortable chasing him around the rink.