1996, the first knocking sound came in the middle of the night. It was my mother. The man who shielded me from my canings, the guardian who never lost his patience with me has left. It was a sudden heart attack. The news came just as sudden as the attack was.
I was primary one and I didn’t cry. I did not understand that crying was part of the expression of grief. Back then, tears were just weapons for new gadgets/ice creams. I remember kneeling next to his picture, nodding at visitors and giving them drinks as token of appreciation. I felt down, but i did not know I was sad because I’m losing an important man in my life. He’s my foster dad. The man whom my mother had thought of giving me to. The man who calls my mother, sister.
2006, the knocking sound came at 2am. My mother came it once again. My grandmother has stopped breathing. We rushed over to her place and found her lying on bed. Her eyes were closed. I cried really hard this time.
I looked at her face, touched her still yet warm body. My grandmother looked so frail. She was almost purple in color. I looked at every inch of her face, and noticed how much I’ve neglected the time spent with her to really understand her. The times when i waited at the bus stop for her, knowing she will sneak out of house to make a trip to the market for her kway chap. The times when she looked guilty yet glad that I caught her. The times when i stopped her from eating the oily food and the times when she would throw tantrums at me for being so bossy towards her. I cried really really hard. My eyes were swollen the next morning at the wake. The pain got over after the first day. Not totally but I enjoyed the little pranks with my cousins at the wake. We dialed for Mac delivery at night and when we were asked of the unit no., we gave the unit no. of the paper house we were going to burn for my grandmother. Then the last day of the wake came, i cried really hard again. I knew I’m losing her for good, but I wish she’ll be happier wherever she is now, not because she’s the mother of my mother but because she’s played the mother role since i was a day old.
2009, the knocking sound came once again. Nevertheless, it was my mother again at 530am. She told me to be prepared for the worst. I went down to find my dad who was practising his yoga at the park. He ran back home the moment i broke the news. I’ve never seen my dad so frantic.
We reached the general hospital at 605am. He has left. I teared. My dad cried as hard as i did for my grandmother previously. His father has left. When my granny came, she fainted.
I feel sad, but I feel more disgusted than anything. I was burning the incense paper as i looked at the ugly faces of my uncles, aunties, cousins and my mother. They cried and mourned like it was the end of the world for them. C’mon be real? All the times when my grandfather was left alone at home with my ill uncle. WHO WAS AROUND? NOBODY! I never fail to find the two men alone at home while my granny was at work each time i visit them. I receive a random call almost each month to bring my grandfather for checkup because nobody else would. He has 6 sons 1 daughter 15grandchildren. Is it not ridiculous to say everyone’s busy? They all wanna play the filial kid role. Gross. My dad was really devastated. He did not speak a word the entire day. It just isnt my dad to be quiet. My eldest uncle, who has no family because he’s seriously ill since young was crying so loudly we could hear her from the flat on the 6th level. I hid in a corner and cried, i can’t remmeber how long i was there. I didn’t cry because i lost my grandfather, at least not totally for that reason. I cried because I was so heartbroken to see my uncle so shattered, so in pain to watch my dad so hurt, so disappointed to see my mother as one of the disgusting freaks. I hate this.
