i think back of one of those days when i go to meet him, it was two different days but it is the same person, and i talk about the same thing. however, one time is not the same as the other.
my dad never wanted us to visit his grave frequently. he says that we shouldn't expose ourselves to "that" place too much. he said he doesn't know whether he'll hear us. i believe he could but it's still different.
when i stand there looking at his picture, seeing his chinese name carved. his delicate features still remind me of the person i love. not once loved. not past tense, never past tense. i love him and always will. it was an unconditional love that we all were forced to give the day we were born. he never demanded it, he never earned it, we just kinda GAVE it. no matter how bad, how awful, and how hard it is. a parent has to screw something up real hard in order for us to stop loving them. and my father never screwed up.
he was the hard person who had this scary muscular physique. one would never know cancer was slowly eating him up inside that hard physique. i would never expect he's so fragile inside. that strong man, i always thought of him. he works hard and i thought he was supposed to work hard. he was supposed to give me money, he was supposed to be there when i wanted him to and to disappear whenever i wanted him too.
how naive of me.
when i stand there in front, looking up. i see a small place for his big body. he worked so hard when he was alive for his family to live in a big house. but when he dies, there's a small plot for him to place his ashes. can't even fit my head inside. it can only fit his remains... after it was burnt to ashes and crumpled and all contained in a jar and a slab of marble.
it was never a plot of land for him. we couldn't afford that. but i guess it was his wish. he chose that plot. who wants to choose the plot they will be put in when they die? who would have the courage to do that? he did. and he made no fuss about it. he just wanted a place to be. and he wanted to get back to his life, the one where he is breathing. i wouldn't be able to choose a plot for myself. i couldn't bear to.
i am there only occasionally, only when rituals call for it. i kinda avoided the place as much as i could, i felt better talking to him in the altar in the safe confines of the house. i wanted to feel that he was still somewhere in the house. somewhere upstairs waiting to shout my name.
but there i am, standing, talking to him about the things i would talk to him about when he was alive. it was both the same topic. but it was never the same. even if he was alive and sleeping and i was there talking to him, it felt different than talking to him now. i can talk to him before i sleep, anywhere and it felt much more natural than there, looking at his well chiselled face, his well combed hair... his face that resembles mine so much people probably couldn't tell us apart if we were both the same age.
they say death separates us physically but not emotionally or spiritually, i say BULLSHIT.
death kills everything. the only thing it didn't kill is your memory and your hope.
the same hope that keeps us alive, the same fragile hope that saw us fighting with bombs and guns. the hope that someone is listening to us. someone who is in a different place.
my dad never wanted us to visit his grave frequently. he says that we shouldn't expose ourselves to "that" place too much. he said he doesn't know whether he'll hear us. i believe he could but it's still different.
when i stand there looking at his picture, seeing his chinese name carved. his delicate features still remind me of the person i love. not once loved. not past tense, never past tense. i love him and always will. it was an unconditional love that we all were forced to give the day we were born. he never demanded it, he never earned it, we just kinda GAVE it. no matter how bad, how awful, and how hard it is. a parent has to screw something up real hard in order for us to stop loving them. and my father never screwed up.
he was the hard person who had this scary muscular physique. one would never know cancer was slowly eating him up inside that hard physique. i would never expect he's so fragile inside. that strong man, i always thought of him. he works hard and i thought he was supposed to work hard. he was supposed to give me money, he was supposed to be there when i wanted him to and to disappear whenever i wanted him too.
how naive of me.
when i stand there in front, looking up. i see a small place for his big body. he worked so hard when he was alive for his family to live in a big house. but when he dies, there's a small plot for him to place his ashes. can't even fit my head inside. it can only fit his remains... after it was burnt to ashes and crumpled and all contained in a jar and a slab of marble.
it was never a plot of land for him. we couldn't afford that. but i guess it was his wish. he chose that plot. who wants to choose the plot they will be put in when they die? who would have the courage to do that? he did. and he made no fuss about it. he just wanted a place to be. and he wanted to get back to his life, the one where he is breathing. i wouldn't be able to choose a plot for myself. i couldn't bear to.
i am there only occasionally, only when rituals call for it. i kinda avoided the place as much as i could, i felt better talking to him in the altar in the safe confines of the house. i wanted to feel that he was still somewhere in the house. somewhere upstairs waiting to shout my name.
but there i am, standing, talking to him about the things i would talk to him about when he was alive. it was both the same topic. but it was never the same. even if he was alive and sleeping and i was there talking to him, it felt different than talking to him now. i can talk to him before i sleep, anywhere and it felt much more natural than there, looking at his well chiselled face, his well combed hair... his face that resembles mine so much people probably couldn't tell us apart if we were both the same age.
they say death separates us physically but not emotionally or spiritually, i say BULLSHIT.
death kills everything. the only thing it didn't kill is your memory and your hope.
the same hope that keeps us alive, the same fragile hope that saw us fighting with bombs and guns. the hope that someone is listening to us. someone who is in a different place.
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September 15, 2005
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