K is for Kong Kong

my grandpa had a heart attack. he rode his bike to the doctors to get checked, then rode his bike home. then he called my cousin to tell him the doctor says he has to go to the hospital immediately.

my grandpa is a man of very few words; much fewer for the girls than for the boys. mum says when she was growing up, her own father didnt really talk much to her either, preferring to get my grandma to talk to her. i usually have 4 lines for him.

1) Hello Ah Kong — greeting when meeting him
2) I’m Ah Ping — he doesn’t always remember my name. i am more commonly refered to as “Ah Ngoh’s Second daughter)
3) Happy New Year/Happy Birthday — as the occasion fits
4) Ah Kong, Bye!

i didn’t think i’d stay for a long visit, apart from well-wishes, asking him if there is anything i can do for him. judging by our previously awkward conversations, i thought we’d just pop in and showed him we cared and then let him rest. i’m 29 this year, and this afternoon i spent 2 hours visiting him in the hospital and had the longest conversation with him, ever. we shared peaches and giggles and i even brave enough to pat him on the shoulder, then a hug before i left. we teased grandma, we talked about why he refused to go for an endoscopy, we laughed about how he watched football till 5 am a few nights before his heart attack.

grandma snuck a pack of cigarettes in her pocket, despite all of us telling her that Grandpa cannot smoke in the hospital, and told her not to give it to him. As we were leaving, she snuck it to him anyway. we laughed and said how thoughtful she was, that she brought the one thing he probably wants the most after his 3-day confinement.. but did she forget to bring him a lighter? she grinned a very cheeky grin, and dug one out of her bag with such a look of triumph. her joy was short lived though — grandpa told her to bring it home for him since he was coming home tomorrow.

grandpa looks well and cheerful. hale and hearty too. i am glad, i got to see such a delightful scene with my grandparents. i am thankful they have each other, that they laugh with each other, they help (even well-intention-ed cig smuggling) each other, and they delight in each other.

多珍贵 how precious.

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O is for Origin

I am watching this oddity of a Korean drama with D – and because
We have to work the next day,  we limit ourselves to 2 episodes a night. There are nights we slip up and watch 2.5 episodes (if it ends on a cliff hanger..then the next night we watch 1.5 episodes. Then there are nights where we are too caught up with work, we forget we had a drama date..

Anyway.. there is this part in the show where it was a particularly tough, emotional tension. The lines goes something like this. . 那不我们都回去原点吧。which loosely translated means, since that is the case, let’s go back to the origin (starting point)

Where would your starting point be? Where does the beginning of what defines you begin and what would you do different this time?

“It is our choices…that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” -albus dumbledore

C is for Chiaroscuro

i met someone i once knew the other day; someone i thought i’d never lose. in the years that went by, i wonder, wonder deeply — if this person has thought of me, the same way i have. maybe its our own characters: i fixate, fixate obsessively obsesssively on memories; the shared laughter, the secret code we used to have, that single moment that defined us. it is easy to turn a person on; we are but raging hormones. but to get into a person’s mind? shame on you, stay out of my soul.

i forget, i forget, i chose to forget– shame on me, flying fucks to you — i forget how you walked away when i was hurting. you left me beaten and hurting and broken and bad. you waltzed out without a care, or a look behind your shoulder. we were oceans apart — emotionally, too. but i cared. i loved, oh i loved — but i cared alone. you had no right. you had no right. i want that broken piece of me fixed. so many tear streaked letters i did not send — hidden, in the recesses of my mind– the dark cancers that lurk in my light.

my light, my gentle gentle loving light. he never hurts, and never bruises. consistent. constant. selfless. my healing, my quiet flame.

M is for measure

In life, my measure of a man, is how he treats the people who work for him.

In love, my measure of a man, is how he treats me, in the bad times not the good.

Last night, I was feeling particularly lousy and emotional, and my forever boyfriend says to me: “what can I do for you? Shall I build you your nest? ” and then proceeded to build me a blanket fort to hide in, for just as long as I needed.