GingerbreadGirl II
Missing.
There is a huge Chinese Rosewood chest that sits in the middle of my mom's bedroom back in the family home in Kuala Lumpur.
In it, lies basically the family history. From phototographs almost a century old to school report cards from yours truly. It was the rememberance of this latter items that made me think a little today and its perhaps why I was a little edgy throughout the day.
When I was 7, as some of you will know, I was really, really sick and my dad had to escort me to school to pick up one of these cards which detailed the results of a school exam taken just a few weeks before. He feared that as I was still unsteady in my feet, he needed to walk me to the office to see my teacher and get me my card.
I had scored 499 marks out of 500 in school that year. It was a disappointment of sorts as it was a point short of a perfect score which had an implication of sorts in the years that were to follow. The main thing that was of importance that happened that year was that he was there.
A fact that so often I tend to forget. He was there when I had my first operation when I was barely a year old. He was there when I had another in my journey to puberty and he was there when I nearly lost my life a few years later with an infection of the liver.
He was there when I lost my sanity in school and regained it in isolation. He understood my quirks and shortcomings and remained in his own way, supportive of me when I decided to chose my own path through life.
We never really got along, my dad and me. I felt his wrath more often than not and cherished the few times he held me. It was only during my birthday and Christmas when got a hug from him and I don't actually remember him actually displaying physical affection towards me.
I probably chose not to. As clearly, and in his own way, he must have cared deeply for me.
I have only a single possession of his with me. A battered old shirt which I keep in my wardrobe. Every time I see it, it reminds me of him.
My mom told me that he did express his disappointment at I wasn't what he'd expected. I should have conquered my demons and ended up successful. Or, at least not to struggle as much as he did.
He never told me this.
There is one other thing that lies in that chest. A stack of photographs taken this exact day 4 years ago. I have never seen them and will probably choose not to ever.
Its pictures of his funeral. He died in his sleep on this very day in 2004.
I never got to say goodbye.
I never even got the chance to show him that I wasn't a failure.
I never even said I loved him.
And I would give everything I own to hug him just that one more time.
Missing.
There is a huge Chinese Rosewood chest that sits in the middle of my mom's bedroom back in the family home in Kuala Lumpur.
In it, lies basically the family history. From phototographs almost a century old to school report cards from yours truly. It was the rememberance of this latter items that made me think a little today and its perhaps why I was a little edgy throughout the day.
When I was 7, as some of you will know, I was really, really sick and my dad had to escort me to school to pick up one of these cards which detailed the results of a school exam taken just a few weeks before. He feared that as I was still unsteady in my feet, he needed to walk me to the office to see my teacher and get me my card.
I had scored 499 marks out of 500 in school that year. It was a disappointment of sorts as it was a point short of a perfect score which had an implication of sorts in the years that were to follow. The main thing that was of importance that happened that year was that he was there.
A fact that so often I tend to forget. He was there when I had my first operation when I was barely a year old. He was there when I had another in my journey to puberty and he was there when I nearly lost my life a few years later with an infection of the liver.
He was there when I lost my sanity in school and regained it in isolation. He understood my quirks and shortcomings and remained in his own way, supportive of me when I decided to chose my own path through life.
We never really got along, my dad and me. I felt his wrath more often than not and cherished the few times he held me. It was only during my birthday and Christmas when got a hug from him and I don't actually remember him actually displaying physical affection towards me.
I probably chose not to. As clearly, and in his own way, he must have cared deeply for me.
I have only a single possession of his with me. A battered old shirt which I keep in my wardrobe. Every time I see it, it reminds me of him.
My mom told me that he did express his disappointment at I wasn't what he'd expected. I should have conquered my demons and ended up successful. Or, at least not to struggle as much as he did.
He never told me this.
There is one other thing that lies in that chest. A stack of photographs taken this exact day 4 years ago. I have never seen them and will probably choose not to ever.
Its pictures of his funeral. He died in his sleep on this very day in 2004.
I never got to say goodbye.
I never even got the chance to show him that I wasn't a failure.
I never even said I loved him.
And I would give everything I own to hug him just that one more time.