Letter to my Childhood Friend

Dear Grandfather,

It has been twelve days since you left us and although I miss you dearly, I know in my heart that you have been released into an eternal happiness. As you are once again with Grandma, your everlasting love.

Growing up, I've lost so many dear to me that sometimes when I am all alone, it is hard to ignore the looming shadows in my heart.

You and Grandma were all I had as a child. Sure, I had parents, uncles and an aunt. Later, my uncles and aunt would go their own ways and marry. Soon my cousins would come and the family would grow. But everyone else still fades into the background when I think of the both of you and remember my earliest years.

I would spend my days with you and Grandma in your shophouse in Chinatown. Where the common staircase always reeked of urine and cats. The house is imprinted in my mind and sometimes in my waking dreams, I find myself wandering the still, silent rooms, retracing the childhood world I used to know.

I still remember everything about the house. The funky, used-plastic scent that would come off the cheap, linoleum floors, and even how they would smell exactly the same, after Grandma had thoroughly mopped them, and they were dutifully dusted and mopped every morning. Perhaps I should not use the word mop, for Grandma's belief was that floors had to be manually wiped and scrubbed where necessary, and she would do this on her own, down on all fours. We had mops but she would not use them because she felt they did not clean effectively enough.

I remember the wooden windows that we would rush to shut when the rains came. The smell of rain would permeate every part of the old, wooden structure and to me, the thunder always sounded louder here than anywhere else. I remember the stairs to the attic where you and Grandma slept, dark and mysterious, even in the day. I remember the storage spaces cleverly tucked to the side of the attic stairs. I remember Grandma's clothing cabinet, ingeniously constructed under the lowest beams of the sloping roof, where Grandma would keep her more special clothes.  I remember the kitchen, the rough cement floors and the kitchen god's altar. I remember my futile, four year old attempts to tell you and Grandma about God over a breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and fresh bread on a Monday morning. I even remember that the verse I quoted to you was John 3:16.

I remember you would take me to the dirty, waterlogged drains around Chinatown, where the water was so dirty it was always a dark putrid, black. By a busy intersection, you would roll up your pants, take off your slippers, step into a drain and scoop up the tiny fish living in the "long kau" for me. I could have easily fallen in and drowned but I had no understanding of fear for you were there beside me. These fish we would transfer into a plastic tank with tap water, where they would die in hours, having been born and raised in water so rancid it was not possible to replicate even if we tried.  

Above all, I remember being so attached to you and Grandma and the old shophouse, that for ages, my parents' apartment never felt like a true home to me.

When the time came for us to part with the old shophouse, the family was understandably very upset. But we had no choice, the government had taken back the lease and given us the notice to vacate. After you and Grandma moved in with my fourth uncle's family, I remember asking Grandma, ever the practical soul, if she missed the place. She would say, she missed the place but that it was a pain to keep clean. And that somehow, the new place, although bigger and more spacious, could not store as much as the old place could. That would be the most I could get out of her, before she went off to work on yet another household chore and tell me to leave the kitchen.

Grandma served our family daily from pre-dawn til late at night. Never complaining, never letting up. I loved her so much, and I wanted to tail her everywhere. But you were different. From the beginning of my memory, you always had a distinct place in my heart, next to Grandma's. Together, you and grandma showed me what marriage and life-long commitment meant. You showed me what hard work, parenthood and love meant.

I remember always feeling very lost in a world of bustling adults. To a lonely, little girl, you were her stability, her fortress, her understanding and most of all, her playmate. Grandma, though affectionate, would be very busy in the kitchen most of the time.

Unlike my parents, however well-intended, you never pushed me to be independent. You understood that a child needed to be allowed to be a child. You never had exceedingly high expectations of me and you never blamed me for anything that went wrong.

Between you and Grandma, she was the warrior, attacking the chores meticulously and waking at dawn each day to serve her beloved family, whilst you were the dreamer and the handyman.

As a child, I was effortlessly fluent in Hokkien and was always conversing freely with the adults in the family. It probably took a lot of effort for the other adults to get me to shut up. But not you. However as time went by I attended school and my cousins came along. The family then began speaking in English. Slowly and sadly, I lost my fluency in the dialect and would revert to broken Hokkien and faltering Mandarin when communicating with you and Grandma. Still you both could understand me somehow, without trying.

You always had a glint in your eye when I mentioned the old shophouse. I was sure, and remain sure to this day, that you have your own special memories of the place. Memories that outnumber mine and would easily outdo mine in terms of exulting the finer details, but yet you simply wanted to hear what your grand-daughter could remember. You were always too happy to listen to me and it brought you great amusement. Your bright, sparkling eyes always encouraged me to continue accounting my stories. As a result, I was always too engrossed in the story telling to realise that I never got to picture what you remembered of the old shophouse. It was not until I was much older that I became the listener instead, and you allowed me into your realm of memories.

There was nothing you couldn't fix. You would buy broken cameras, broken clocks and bric-brac that people wanted to get rid of and bring them home to your attic work table and fix them. You would touch and examine each contraption, learning from your mental picture of how each component was supposed to function and looked for spare parts to replace defective or broken ones. In particular, I remember the countless film cameras you gave me as a child. My parents would complain that I was wasting film, which was considered excessively expensive for a child to play with, in those days.

It is, therefore, only to you, that I owe my life-long interest in photography.

I am so like you, that I never cared for user manuals or training workshops, for you were completely self-taught and learnt at your own pace, when fancy (or should I say 'necessity') struck.

When we found out that Grandma was ill with advanced bone cancer, you were livid. You kept saying that it should have been you instead. You spent countless days sitting at Grandma's hospital bedside. Whenever I visited her, you would be there too. Perhaps you were lost at home, without Grandma's presence in the kitchen. I understood you but I was shell shocked and had no words to give you then, whether in broken Hokkien or failing Mandarin. I was sixteen and terrified. Mummy had already been stricken with cancer since 1995 and when the news came about Grandma, I was not sure what to think. The adults suddenly stopped talking about the state of things and the other children were too young to understand. It was a very awkward time for me, and I would often look back later and call it a dark year.

After Grandma passed away in December 1998 and my mother about six weeks after her, in February 1999, our family was changed forever.

All our hearts broke for you when you suddenly called for a family meeting and started to give out Grandma's jewels and your remaining assets. Dad and I were particularly broken. We were crying openly and so were you. To me, it seemed like you were announcing your death to us because you had lost your reason to live. I was truly scared and did not know what to make of everything. It was too much for me to deal with and I tried to minimise my interactions with the family to try and wipe out my despair. It was easy enough to do as Dad was always away (perhaps for the same reason?) and we did not live close to any of the rest of the family.

Sometime after you moved to live with Fifth uncle, I completed my diploma. I had a few months of temporary work at a law firm before I decided to go overseas to do a degree. Dad was very unhappy about the whole thing and wanted me to reconsider. He suggested that I take a certificate course in beauty therapy and when I rejected that flatly, he wanted me to sign on with the Singapore Armed Forces. It was really quite ridiculous because I was never someone who liked strenuous physical activity but Dad was convinced. When you found out, you were so angered by Dad's suggestion that you told him plainly that you already had, not just five sons who already completed their army stints, but also eight grandsons who would, in time, grow up and perform their compulsory duty to the nation. You made it known that he was not to make a soldier out of your eldest grand-daughter.

Dad complied and I happily went on to do my degree in Australia. Whilst I was there, your health started to deteriorate and there were a few times when the family was told to gather at your bedside. It tore at my heart for me to not be physically present. After three semesters, it seemed that you were not recovering. I made a decision to move back home and complete the remainder of my degree externally.

That year, I insisted on preparing a traditional Chinese New Year reunion dinner at our place. I wanted more than anything for the whole family to have a home-cooked meal once again. After Grandma passed on, there was no matriarch, my aunts tried to host the reunion dinners initially but did not have the stamina to keep it up. As we then numbered at least 25 strong, it was far too much work to prepare the food and organise everybody. Thus we had started going out for the reunion dinner for a number of years. It was always insanely overpriced and no one really enjoyed it, and we were always chased off by harried servers and restaurant owners. So in 2006 I insisted on organizing because my university term had not begun and I had loads of time on my hands.

I remember how happy you were at the dinner. You had no complains and ate everything with a healthy gusto. All the inconveniences and troubles I had to go through in putting it together simply melted away. I was so happy to see you enjoy yourself, it was all that was important to me. I still think of it as one of my greatest achievements and this memory positively shines on in my mind whenever I look back.

When Rz and I got engaged in 2007, I requested to have the wedding early so that you could be there and revel in it to the fullest. You were becoming very frail already and whilst still very lucid at the time, I was simply not taking chances. I told Rz that if possible, I'd love for you to see our children. I wanted very much for you to see them and know them, and to me, after having lost Grandma and Mummy, time was always in short supply. I was simply in a hurry, and Dad, as usual, could not understand it (he called it "rash behaviour".. and I actually deserve to rant about this because my dad later re-married after a very short period of dating whereas Rz and I were together for four years before we got engaged.) but thankfully, Rz understood and agreed so we went ahead. Dad being dad, did not agree, thus he did not finance us. But I persisted and went ahead, in my usual style.

One day in 2008, whilst we were chatting away, you told me that upon arriving in Singapore for the very first time, many, many years ago, you had picked out 1923 as your year of birth for registration purposes in Singapore. You had come over with your family from China and had no official papers and you didn't even know your date of birth. You told me that the year 1923 was either selected by yourself or your own father (who also did not know the actual date of your birth) and it was memorable to one or both of you, but by the time you were relaying the account to me, you could no longer remember why 1923 was special. You had taken out your identity card and was showing it to me for the first time. The date reads 00-00-1923. We mulled about it together and the topic moved on to other random things. Later I was told by my uncles that you had never mentioned this to them and they had no inkling whether or not it was true. As for me, there was no question, since it came directly from you.

You poured out memory after memory to me, every day after your stay. I was very grateful for those conversations, for shortly after that, you lost your memory and began to descend into a blissful twilight. Towards the end, you even forgot all our names. It was very sad for us to watch. I was aggrieved because you had no more recollection, but I knew it would be less stressful for you, carrying the burden of your memories and grief with you.

Now that I am thirty and standing on the edge of a new chapter in life, I find that I have lost so much in life that I value. You are amongst these and I know that eventually I will be able to stand up and move on, but right now all I can think of is you, Grandma and Mummy. I know you would want me to be the best I can be and not look back with sadness nor a heavy heart. I cannot add the loss of you to the equation without feeling completely bereft, but I cannot disrespect your memory by with-holding my goodbye.

Thank you for being my grandfather and my first, childhood friend. Thank you for teaching me so much. For loving me so much. Thank you for showing me the value of family versus fortune. May you and Grandma rest in blissful peace, knowing that your family will never forget you and everything that you stood for.

Love for always.

Your grand-daughter.

- 28 September 2012 9:40am -

People say?

Two weeks ago, my grandfather was sent to the ER by his nursing home staff because he had fallen there. There they found that his kidneys had failed and surgery was suggested. But none of us, even the doctors, were confident that surgery was going to make anything better. We all felt he was too frail and delicate to go through an operation, and withstand all the risks and complications accompanying any surgery. Since there was nothing else the hospital could do, my grandfather was discharged with only painkillers and antibiotics now.

The twilight of his days has truly begun.

Already, he has no recollective memory, very little short term memory and he cannot walk nor support himself. He is also incontinent. Old age has turned my gentlemanly grandfather into somebody else we all, himself included, cannot recognise.

A part of my being is mourning the person he used to be.

--

I can't believe it's already September.

I resigned from active service in early June and gave a 2 month notice period, which was a month more than the requirements had stated as mandatory. My last day with them was 31 July 2012.

Although I had been contemplating my resignation since June 2011, it wasn't until certain events took place that I realised I could no longer stay.

Ever increasing work and supervisory loads, a miscarriage in December 2011 and two failed IUIs over the months of February, March and April brought me to realise that staying would prevent me from having the family I've always wanted.

Throughout my two final months, it was really hard to say goodbye to the things I had once worked so hard for. There were some days that I just felt so attached to the place.. the people.. everything.

Expectedly, some people made it very difficult. They would make comments to imply that I was ungrateful to their generousity and that I was wasting my 'talent' (to me it was just pure hard work). Some even said that the market outside was so bad I'd have problems finding a job that paid equally "well" (which is completely subjective, lol. I certainly do not think I was well paid ;) hahaa..). Some people made it difficult by directing their stony silence my way. Both were equally regrettable, but I had decided that they all had a choice and it was up to them to say or do what they chose to say or do.

I simply didn't want to give any reaction that would mar or distort the last memories I had of the place. In fact, the sole reason why I am finally writing down my thoughts is because I will probably forget if I didn't.

I guess the past months have taught me a lot about people. Everything is well and good when you present to them a positive and happy story. When they realise that they were too assumptive, and you present the truth, sometimes they take it the wrong way.(Again "wrong way" is probably subjective too, because again it implies that I also have my own expectations regarding the situation.)

For me I think after my studies in Australia, I became more receptive to the concept of free-choice. I suppose being receptive to the concept also holds me to be receptive to consequences of "free-choice" situations. One can't say, "It's up to you... You make the decision" and later be upset that the person exercised a choice opposite to what was expected. It's hypocrisy.

I guess this has helped me come to terms with most of the things people say. I realise that sometimes what I say out of goodwill also brings out the ugly side in people. It could be given as a well-meaning comment, but the person would think that I had other implications hidden in that comment. It's not uncommon these days, as people are becoming more and more cynical. They actually doubt that they are being genuinely complimented.

And I don't exactly blame them either. It really reflects on some form of insecurity and when it happens, I find myself seeing their past wounds re-surface, as people tend to become defensive in areas where they had once been hurt before.

Of course I am no saint - I get offended, upset, hurt, pissed, suspicious, just like everyone else and I don't claim to know any better than anyone else either. It's just that I think that if each person could see for themselves what this actually is - a viscious cycle, they could realise and try to find a way out of it.

Life is just too short to bear grudges.

I will move on by God's abounding grace. Since He has called me to close the door, I have. And whilst I was about to depend on His provision, He's already opened a new door unto me, even though at the time, I hadn't even begun looking for a new job.

I will begin work at my new position next Monday :)

- 11 September 2012 3:45pm -

Temporary Maintenance

Currently, some of our Flickr sets are under-going much needed re-organisation.

As the collection we have on Flickr is huge, we regret that we can only do this in batches at a time, so this whole process will take some time.

Please bear with us as some of our galleries on this blog and the Hamstery site will be unavailable for public viewing in the meantime.

Thank you for your patience :)

You can be Perfect now.

An excerpt.

--

Lying on a hospital bed was a still, silent form, seemingly asleep. Nearby, a machine whirred and sighed occassionally, joining the low, barely perceptible hum from other machines in other rooms.

The bed which stood in a corner, beside a low table laden with fresh lilies, was one of four other beds in the room. Every room in this ward had the ocassional burst of fresh flowers, but on the collective whole, even the most exotic bouquets appear uniform after some time, as they all came from the same florist located at the hospital lobby.

There was nothing else of interest about this corner, nor of this room, for every room on this floor was nearly identical in size, shape, furnishings and colour.  This was just another room in the oncology ward of a public hospital where it had served the general population since its inception. For nearly two centuries, everyday, successive waves of patients and doctors come and go, filling its wings with all manner of urgent, bustling activity. But for now, the hospital stood morosely on a hill, steeped in the indulgent calmness of the night.

A sixteen year old girl was unglamourously heaped in a chair, beside the bed. She had her legs curled under her and her eyes were closed.

The form on the bed was her ailing mother, whom at 43 years of age, was rapidly declining. She was losing her battle with cancer. It had now progressed to her liver, which was failing by the day.

Sometimes the occupant of the next bed would rise for some water. Or use the bathroom. Sometimes a nurse would come and look in on them, before flitting off to the bedside of another patient.

The girl was never fully asleep. At every faint stirring her large brown eyes would pop open. She had been trying to sleep in the same chair every night for nearly a fortnight and the dull ache of that discomfort was becoming etched in her youthful joints.

It sometimes felt like she was beginning to lose count of the days she had spent shuttling back and forth to the hospital. Staying at home just long enough to take a bath, sometimes swallowing a slice of bread, before leaving again for the hospital only made her feel that her parents' apartment was less and less a home and more and more like a vacant, colourless space. Not that she felt any fondness for the hospital's mundane furnishings and pastel-papered walls either. They made no impression in her memory, whatsoever, despite the endless hours she had endured there.

For now there was no other foremost desire in the girl's mind, than to remain within close proximity of her mother. The few friends she had from school were probably celebrating their graduation from secondary school and most of them had probably already found internships and job attachments. The more affluent ones were probably abroad enjoying long holidays.

At sixteen, it seemed understandable, even to her, that none of her friends could comprehend the depth of feelings she alone had come to know and suffer. Perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that she had not yet learnt how to articulate what she was feeling within herself. More than once she caught herself trying to make sense of the situation she was in, but stopped short because the usual, frustrated tears would come and then, rendered useless, she would feel ever more so alone. Mutedness was preferential to tears, and she often said nothing instead of trying to analyse the situation.

Her father was often too busy to spend time with the family, having to frequently travel for work. He would spend weeks and months away at a time, and when he was back, he usually kept to himself, or was usually out all night with friends. If he was home, he would be hidden away in his study into the wee hours of the night. She was never able to engage her father in any conversation without being brushed off or ignored. As a result it was not surprising that there was very little real communication between father and daughter, if at all.

She was exhausted and gaunt, having lost her appetite many moons ago. She was accustomed to not having proper meals anyway. Her mother had been ill for such a long time that she could not remember when they last had a home-cooked meal together at home as a family. Indeed, the past six years were an accumulation of her mother's illness and her father's sporadic presence, school cafeteria meals were her main meals. Going back to silence at home had felt like a lonely eternity to her.

Yet her father, too, was with them now, sprawled out on the visitor's couch in deep slumber; perhaps because as an adult, his intuition told him that there was not much time.

The girl's mother began to mumble incoherently in her sleep. Immediately, the girl jumped awake and edged her ear nearer to her mother's lips. Her mother's voice was raspy now and the girl felt a sudden constriction around the region of her heart to see her so weak. Her mother flailed her hands around the girl mindlessly, fending off things unseen, constantly muttering at the same time.

Barely, just barely, she could make out her mother's words. She heard her mother say, "Girl... You must only pierce your ears... when you are married..."

It did not make any sense, but the girl acted as though it did and promptly gave her agreement. This seemed to greatly please her mother, who fell back onto her pillows and closed her eyes. A faint smile on her ashen countenance.

Awhile later, when it seemed that her mother had fallen asleep, the girl stood up, wondering at her mother's words. She did not know what to make of them, so she stood silently pondering her mother's still form. Her mother seemed different by day and by night.

Earlier that same day, her mother had spoken to family and friends far more coherently than she just did. Her friends had even remarked how well she looked. All day she had visitors but she did not tire. Indeed, she acted like a hostess, entertaining her guests with stories and harmless gossip.

In between visitors, her mother had said this to the girl, "I am sorry.. For all the things I've done and put you through." The girl, rendered speechless by the suddeness of the apology, had not known what to make of it.

Bewildered, she had replied, "Well, do your best to get well then. If getting well is what you want, you need to fight on." Laughing at her serious tone, her mother had agreed. But she then proceeded to tell her of a dream she had the previous night, where she was sure she had saw a bit of Heaven.

She had said, "I was lying there on the grass in the sunshine, but it wasn't hot at all.. It was just right.. And in my dream, I was neither fat nor thin, tall nor short. I was just perfect." She had smiled brilliantly like a teenager herself when she said this.

The girl wondered now, if everything her mother had done for the people she loved had been out of a fervent, innate desire for perfection. Before she could ponder further, her father stirred awake and rose from the couch and began a series of stretches, walking out of the room.

Suddenly, a wild, indescribable desperation for the familiarity of a parent's affections filled the girl and she ran after her father. She caught up with him and gave him a bear hug, even though they had ceased to engage in all forms of affection since she was a child.

Surprised, her father chose not to react openly. He did not reciprocrate her hug, nor did he push her away. He just scratched himself with his free arm and said, "Are you hungry? I'm going to visit the toilet." Stumbling back awkwardly, the girl quickly let her father go. She had regretted her actions in that instant, and shrugged silently to herself.

By now it was nearing dawn, and nurses from the morning shift were starting to report to work. The ward was still relatively quiet, but now it was slowly reviving from its nightly repose. In a few hours, the ward would be abuzz with visitors and doctors. Like the weeks before, the girl would take her leave from her mother's bedside when her first visitor arrived, and return home for much needed refreshment before rushing back again. It appeared that today would be no different.

The girl moved to stand near a hallway window. She liked this particular window as it was facing the direction in which she lived. It had become a daily morning ritual for her to stand at this spot and allow her eyes to take in the view. It was also a spot where she could stretch freely and take in the refreshing, dewy morning air. It was still dark, but there was a slight, red taint in the eastern sky. She could see her parents' apartment building from where she stood.

As she stood looking out at the stirring city, she began to see in her teen mind, her parents' unravelling marriage. Her father's late nights and frequent travels. Her mother's apparent popularity and secret loneliness and how things had digressed from what they were when she was a child, gradually fading into a thick, heavy, grudging silence in the family. She wondered like she did very often, if her friends belonged to happier, functional families.

She started to whisper the opening of a prayer but could not think of anything more to say except, "Dear God..", so she left her sentence hanging and decided to return to her mother's bedside.

There, she found that a nurse had come by and had drawn the curtains around her mother's bed. Wordlessly, the girl slipped into the curtained area and waited for the nurse. Something felt different this time, something in the air felt tensed. Turning to her, the nurse simply said, "Go and get your father."

These words alarmed the girl greatly and she flew out of the curtains and nearly ran, headlong, into her father who had just stepped back into the room.

Her father hastily disappeared behind the curtains to her mother's bedside. A night-duty doctor also came rushing in, apparently having been summoned by the attending nurse. He too, disappeared behind the curtains.

Whilst the adults were discussing the situation, she could not bring herself to eavesdrop even though she was nearly beside herself with worry. She could not decide whether to sit or stand, so she decided to stand by the doorway.  Elsewhere in the room, the other patients were completely unawares, for they were blissfully sound asleep.

Her father came out of the curtains and sat down in a chair near where the girl stood. In her eyes, he seemed to have aged instantly. The doctor and nurse went away discreetly.

He spoke quietly, a little louder than a whisper, without looking directly at her, "Mummy.. has died.. The doctor asks us to decide if they should try to revive her. We have a minute to decide whilst they locate the machines for standby."

A myriad of random colours and images flooded themselves into the girl's mind, and then faded into a dense blankness.

What could a sixteen year old say at this point? A minute to decide?

For a moment, father and daughter were quiet.

Her father spoke first, his eyes damp, "Mummy would not want to be revived.. Also to do so would be cruel as her organs are already past expiry.. The pain and suffering will continue.." After a long, tired pause, he added, "You agree?"

Numb with shock and bereft of emotion, the girl forced herself to make sense of the situation. She felt nothing at that moment, no pain nor loss. Just an intense desire to surrender to the numbing sensations she was now left with, though she was unsure if they had flowed out from her mind or had been pumped through her heart.

She asked her father, "Revive.. as in.. how? With a machine?"

Over the years, she had seen a good many, hospital machines in all her trips to the hospital with her mother for treatment, for testing, by bedsides, by other patient's bedsides. The variety was immense and she could never remember all their names and functions even if the adults would explain them. At this point she still struggled to comprehend the whole possibility of it all.

Her father answered, "Yes, she is technically brain dead."

Brain dead? Did that mean her body was still alive? The girl absently shook her head, perhaps in a bid to attain some clarity of thought.

Then, as if suddenly lucid, she recalled her mother's dream. 'Perfect' was what her mother had called herself in it. She knew at once what her mother would have wanted; to attain her own perfection.

She turned and gave her agreement to her father. He then went to inform the nurse, leaving the girl to approach her mother's curtained bedside on her own. She did not want to share her mother's dream with him right now. It felt like a sacred piece of her fragile heart and to share it would be giving it up to someone who might possibly ridicule and destroy the sanctity of it. She simply could not.

A thin sheet had been placed over her mother but her face had been left uncovered. The girl studied her face quietly. It felt strange to think that her mother, once a vibrant and vivacious schoolteacher with an all-consuming passion for her students, would never speak or laugh again.

Her mother had always been actively serving in her school and the family church. She had always more than one project on her busy schedule at any given time. She was also a very devoted daughter and daughter in law. A mere two months prior to this day, her mother had, herself, spent many hours at the deathbed of her own mother in law, the girl's paternal grandmother. When the time came to put her mother in law at rest, she too, was present to dutifully participate in the taoist rites initiated by the extended family, even though she was already quite unwell by that time.

The girl's sense of both these losses was overwhelming and she felt completely overcome. Although she had felt the icy clutches of grief creep into her being upon her grandmother's death, the depth of this raw emotion felt completely new and threatening, in its madness and intensity.

Still, she somehow could not bring herself to shed any tears at this time.

She whispered, "Goodbye Mummy. You can be perfect now."

The successive events were mechanical and looking back afterwards, the girl could remember nothing of that morning, except her final words to her mother and that odd, last conversation they had shared.

-- end of excerpt --

- 15 August 2012 11:38am -

Left

I'm not sure what it is about this time of the year that brings back acquaintances and old friends.

Amongst the old faces I've been seeing around lately, a particular face stands out. She is an incredible person and someone I used to look up to in the past.

At one point, I even thought, no, believed, we would always be linked to each other. Somehow a twist in my path led me to a totally different direction, one that changed all our lives forever.

Of course at the time, I was young enough to think that only my life had changed.

I didn't realise until she called me a couple of weeks ago that her life had been changed by those events too. It was the distinctive fondness that I could hear in her voice that really told the story.

I was humbled by the realisation. I never thought for one moment that I'd hear her voice ever again. Nor that she could still be so fond of someone who had drifted away all these years, in silence.

I nearly cried when I heard her identify herself on the phone. Not because I was happy or sad, but because I was so moved that she actually remembered me.. and actually thought of me fondly enough to come to me in her time of need.

When she called, I was feeling quite unwell as I have been on medication since February and some of the side effects make me really feel sick. But of course, I couldn't let her know that.

My heart was crumbling for an unseen future that I had left behind. It's an inexplicable feeling, like I saw a glimpse of what I had left behind and was given this chance to channel a feeble ray of light in that direction from my inner consciousness, with hope that it could somehow do something for her.

I didn't want her to hang up though my head was reeling.

I just wanted to give her all the information I could in order to help her. So I didn't answer all her personal questions. How was I? Was I married? Was I busy with work? Where was I working? I was not going to tell her I was unwell. I wasn't going to give her reason to worry.

She shouldn't worry. She has a busload of her own worries. And I have God to help me with mine. So I knew I couldn't answer.

After she hung up, I told Rz about the call. I was a stuttering idiot, trying to make sense of it myself.

I have no idea what the man thinks of the incident.. perhaps he's just glad it wasn't something worse. Or that it wasn't someone else XD He's got a crazy, hormonally imbalanced wife who for the past month or so, has been consistently on drugs XD

Poor Rz XD


- 22 March 2012 11:21pm -