Ching Ming
My last memory of Gong gong is that of me getting up to leave my aunt's house. He was in Singapore for cancer treatment, and I was visiting during the last school holiday before my final secondary school exam. I got up to leave, and said goodbye.
And then...
He took my hand. He had never taken my hand ever. And he took it then. He looked at me, and held it for a while. I wanted to cry, but I instead, I said I would see him soon. I never did.
When he died, I was at home, studying for my exams. There were people with him of course, my father, my aunts, my uncle, of course, my grandmother. Not me.
During his funeral, I hung around the parlor, talking to long lost relatives and just sitting. When everyone left for lunch, I stayed. For a while it was me and him, and I cried and cried. And my father walked in. I remember putting my head in his lap, and asking him to make it all go away. To bring Gong gong back and make the nightmare end. That... didn't work.
When he was buried, I stayed at home. I told my father I needed to study. On that day, I went downstairs and washed his car. When I finished I sat there, on the pavement, sobbing. I didn't study that day, and not the day after, and the day after that.
Today, sitting in the hotel room in Sydney, the memories come rushing back in a torrent. I remember him, his dark tan, his gruff voice, his slow gait, his gentleness, his everything.
Ceng Beng. Festival of the Dead.
I miss him so much.
And then...
He took my hand. He had never taken my hand ever. And he took it then. He looked at me, and held it for a while. I wanted to cry, but I instead, I said I would see him soon. I never did.
When he died, I was at home, studying for my exams. There were people with him of course, my father, my aunts, my uncle, of course, my grandmother. Not me.
During his funeral, I hung around the parlor, talking to long lost relatives and just sitting. When everyone left for lunch, I stayed. For a while it was me and him, and I cried and cried. And my father walked in. I remember putting my head in his lap, and asking him to make it all go away. To bring Gong gong back and make the nightmare end. That... didn't work.
When he was buried, I stayed at home. I told my father I needed to study. On that day, I went downstairs and washed his car. When I finished I sat there, on the pavement, sobbing. I didn't study that day, and not the day after, and the day after that.
Today, sitting in the hotel room in Sydney, the memories come rushing back in a torrent. I remember him, his dark tan, his gruff voice, his slow gait, his gentleness, his everything.
Ceng Beng. Festival of the Dead.
I miss him so much.
