I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Of all the toys that he own, his current prized possession would be this battered tin can. Wrecked with lines and dents all around it, this tin does not look much. 

But during these holiday afternoons, it has been his source of pride and joy when he was left to his own devices while sister was at school.

Placing this can on top of the tv console or atop another toy, he shoots at it with his nerf gun and the few trusty bullets that he owns. Sweating with determination and perseverance, he uses this can as his target practice honing his accuracy over the days, until he is able to hit the can down several times in succession.

While the sound of the metal can rattling noisily onto the floor may grate on a few nerves, each accurate shot that knocks the can off its spot is music to his ears. 

To onlookers, it may not seem to mean much - just a boy playing with a toy gun. But as I witnessed that shy, happy smile or the whoop of excitement that he gives with each successful shot, I reflect and remembered a line that I had read from the biography of Temple Grandin, an author who too has autism. 

I am what I think and do, more than what I feel.

Reading her words often gave me an insight to S's mind and understand a bit more on how his brain thinks. 

Not doing well in his recent exams has caused S to be split from the majority of his current classmates to (probably) the last class of his level next year. And while I worry down a host of problems, about his new classmates, new teachers and environment, whether the bullying cycle will start again, whether he will be able to find, make and keep new friends, I take solace in her words that these worries probably do not mean much to him. 

What matters instead is what he thinks he can achieve, instead of how I think he feels. In this instance, every knock down he manages is a boost to his self confidence and ability. Be it a chance success or a good aiming, he is evidently extremely pleased with his achievement.

While I do not hold high hopes for him academically, I do hope that S will never stop having this tenacious attitude of achieving and believing that he can, soaring to greater heights to fulfil his aspirations no matter how small they may seem.

En garde my boy! 
Towards Primary Three.

Lunar 7th Month

The flames licked the papers until they became a bright orange burning mass, scorching the air around us with its oppressive heat.

A stray gust of wind stirred the burning ashes up swirling them around until like falling grey snow, they settled everywhere, onto our clothes and hair.

We stood there looking until everything that we had burnt became nothing more than charred black debris, then we left.

It is that time of the year again, when the gates are opened for the dead to roam around us for a month.

I do not know if you are amongst the roaming 'crowd', much less if you receive the items that we burn for you. But I don't think too much into it as the dutiful daughter in me calls out. 

Just earlier on, we had picked out joss papers, clothes, shoes and other 'necessities' and had them packed into a package for you. The one that we had just burnt.

And if this was your death anniversary, I would have been more extravagant, 'sending' you paper cars, massage chairs, majong sets and the latest phone models like I had over the previous years. 

The burning of such offerings may be a ridiculous notion to some. But to me, it is a tradition that I was brought up with, and a belief that I am somehow, able to continue providing for you even after you have passed on. 

I wondered if you have received the items, and if they were intact.

I wondered how you were, and wistfully thought about the times when you were still with us.

I wondered if you were proud of my achievements over these past nine years, and if you knew you were now a grandfather.

I wondered if the act of burning these offerings was actually a form of solace for myself instead of you. That it was a way I could continue linking with you, even though I know that the line between us has long been broken.

Until the Lunar Seventh Month ends, the gates will be opened for another week more or so. Yet, in anticipation of the Mooncake festival, lanterns and mooncakes of all sorts have already been hung out in shops at full blast since weeks earlier. 

Life, in its usual self-preserving mode, wastes no time in hurtling itself towards the next festivities.

And like the many others rushing past me towards their next destination, I too have to move onwards in life.

But in the midst of my progress, I also try to slow down my footsteps, making the effort to appreciate the little things in life before it gets mowed down by the passage of time. Till then, all that we will be left will be nothing but cherished memories in our hearts.

You are dearly missed, Pa.
Wherever you may be in this space of time, I hope that you are well.

A Tale Of The Mysterious Bowl Of Noodles

There was a mystery that plagued us since my son, S, first started primary school. Initially having difficulties ordering his food for recess, his routine kicked in only after a few months and thereafter, whenever we asked what he had for recess, his answer would always be the same.

"Dry maggi noodles."

And I would go trawl through the school's website for the canteen menu, scrutinising the list for this item. There were wanton noodles, curry noodles, and chicken noodles amongst many others, but no 'dry maggi noodles' were listed.

For months, this mystery plagued us until it became a mystery unsolved. We tried several times probing further into what type of noodles he actually had, but S was unable to articulate his thoughts and describe it to us. We had also made a few attempts to visit the school, but unfortunately on all times the canteen was closed.

Weeks turned into months, and months into two years. And still, every single day, his reply would be the same.

'I had dry maggi noodles for recess.'

Although exasperated, we let the mystery slide until over the months, it became a long-standing tv series instead of a suspense drama. Until last week.

In support of his school's walkathon-cum-funfair, we had trooped down to find - lo and behold, the canteen open! It was a perfect opportunity to finally unravel the mystery of the noodles.

While watching S queueing patiently in line for his turn, I felt an unspoken surge of pride. Newbie no more, my boy had grown so much more independant and confident throughout these two years. When it was his turn, he made his order for one 'dry maggi' and that was it.

We were pleasantly surprised when the auntie recognised him and told us that he was her '老顾客!' (Regular customer) He had loyally patronised her stall for almost two years afterall. She also shared that he had on several times, shouted for his order even though he was far behind in the queue. My boy was that anxious to have his noodle fix.

As he carefully carried his noodles to the table, he surprised us again by eating with chopsticks. None of us at home had ever seen him eat with chopsticks. Although not a pro, he could drag his noodles up and with some manouvering, even pick up a fishball.

Sitting beside him and watching him slurping up his noodles, my eyes welled up with a sudden swell in emotions. Somehow, catching this rare glimpse of S in his school environment and how he was adapting, made me realise just how much he has grown, in so little a time. And he made us very proud with his little achievements! It was another mark added to his milestone.

And so, the long standing drama series has finally ended and the mystery solved. We have also come to learn that S, being a creature of habit, would not tire in having the same meal every day.

Through my eyes, these noodles in its signature plastic orange bowls do not mean much. But to him, I imagine it to be the most delicious meal in the whole canteen. The staple, familiar, comforting meal that he looks forward to at every recess.

And when he is all grown up, I have no doubt that these noodles will be remembered fondly in his nostalgic memories of school.

Sing You a Song

He was in his room playing when he suddenly ran out into the living room where his gong-gong and po-po were watching the tv. His ears had somehow picked up strains of the new national day song playing. 

Placing himself strategically in front of them and cutting off a portion of their view, he began to sing.

Warbling words that I couldn't quite make out, he belted out strings of lyrics, singing along to the new song that he had (presumably) learnt in school.

I observed him from the dining table as he stood there, gustily singing along to whatever lyrics he remembered from his music lesson. In between breadths, he would shout for us to look at him whenever he thought our attention strayed. 

"Look at me! I'm singing the song! Look at me!" He would exclaim proudly. 

His enthusiasm was infectious.

I watched as he sang his heart out, tone deaf in some parts and off-pitched in most. 

I watched as he took deep breadths whenever he thought he should, following each new breadth with a loud burst in volume. 

I watched as he sang loudly and softly, with high notes and low notes, pausing whenever there was a break within the choruses. 

I watched his hand gestures poised, I assumed, like his music teacher in school as he waited for the cue to start singing the next chorus.

I watched as he stood in front of the tv, proudly singing and performing what he had learnt in school.

Others might see a boy who was singing out of tune, and with over-enthusiastic gusto.

But as I watched him standing there, singing with the big wide smile on his lips and pure enjoyment radiating from his face, I saw a boy who sang beautifully. 

I saw my boy exuding confidence and happiness. 

And I realised that for all my exasperations - the narrow scrapes past each school term, the barely passed marks his term assesment papers scored, the dog-eared crummy worksheets he squished into his file every single day, the dirty pencil box smudged over with black stains, constantly filled with broken pencil leads and rubber shavings, and all my constant picking up after him. For all they were worth, my boy enjoyed his school. 

Basking in our applause after the song had ended, he executed a bow and grinned from ear to ear as he said '谢谢'. Then he ran back to the cars that he had so abruptly left awhile ago.

That night as I looked through his bag, flipping through his messily scribbled diary, straightening out the crumpled pieces of worksheets, and sharpening up his blunt, broken pencils, I felt heartened in all the mundane motions. 

Because, although clean pencil boxes mattered, neat worksheets mattered, and grades mattered, I almost forgot that him enjoying school was what mattered most.

As much as I wanted S to be able to overcome his difficulties and excel in school, he had to first enjoy learning and the journey along. 

So far, we seem to be on track.
And I am thankful for that.

To my neighbour, Rachael.

The news had been expected. But still, I clung on to a shred of hope in the quietness over the past twenty days. In a way, no news meant good news. Then yesterday, as I heard the doorbell ring at such odd hours, and the hushed whispers that followed outside my house, I knew instinctively that it was news of your departure. 

You and I have been neighbours for 10 years. And though we've seen each other's children grow from a baby to a child, we weren't especially close.

I didn't know what your surname was, or what hobbies you had. But I could easily recognise your voice from outside my door when you were rushing around trying to get your children ready for school or for going out.

We didn't know each other's birthdays. But you knew my children's as I knew yours. And come each birthday, we would buy for each child, a small gift. It would be nothing fanciful really, but it was a token of our neighbourly ties.

We didn't know the likes and dislikes of each other. But we knew the different sets of problems our children faced in school. The snatches of conversations that we had hurridly exchanged during those slivers of time when we had bumped into each other between me rushing for work, and you leaving for your marketing.

In the years recently, I haven't been seeing you around as often as I used to. Your family would be away for long blocks of hours everyday and it would be harder to bump into you. The last conversation that we had, had been many months ago when you were telling me about the family commitments that you faced. That too, had been hurried and rushed as I was getting home after work and you had to go prepare dinner.

We didn't chat often, but those regular exchanges of pleasantries and the catches of conversations that we had shared over the years, had been our ways of getting to know each other.

Yet, beyond our catchups outside our houses and around our estate, I didn't know you much.

I didn't know if you had any peculiar habits, or if you preferred to drink coffee or tea. I didn't know how bad your eyesight was or how well you could see without your spectacles. I didn't know your age or your dialect group, if you had any medical conditions, or that you had heart problems. 

I didn't know what happened that night when your kids came out rushing and shouting that you had fallen down.

I didn't know what to expect when I rushed over with my family and the other neighbours.

I didn't know what to do when I saw you lying there unconscious at your toilet floor.

I was shaken with shock, and between helping to calm down your kids who were crying for you to wake up, calling for the ambulance, and frantically digging through your possessions trying to locate your identity card and your medications, my mind drew a blank and I didn't know anything else.

After the ambulance had whisked you away to the hospital with your husband beside you, and your sister had arrived to look after your kids, everything quietened back down, and the neighbours and I slowly retreated back to our individual houses.

It was a sombre mood as I prepared myself and my kids for bed. I couldn't sleep that night. Everytime I closed my eyes, my mind flashed back to the scene of you lying there unmoving and broken.

Since that night, your quiet household became even quieter and emptier, devoid of any movements. Over the past weeks, all we heard of, were that you were in the icu with no change to your condition.

Until today.

I didn't know a lot about you, and I guess I never will anymore. What I do know, is that you were a kind, warm and helpful person, and a wonderful neighbour to have.

Life is unpredictable, and your sudden departure has left a raw absence and dull spot in our floor of neighbours. As your husband and children mourn for your loss, we grieve along too, missing your presence in our hearts.

Goodbye Rachael.
May you rest in peace.

Golden Anniversary

We stood behind the doors, waiting and anticipating.

My heart was beating fast in anticipation and nervousness of what was to come, and of what may c*ck up. One of my hands, fingers icy cold, was held warm and firm in yours, while my other was tucked between the folds of my gown.

We shared a nervous smile and moments later, as if on cue, the doors opened wide. We began our walk down the red carpet in slow steps, and amidst the applause and glittery confetti, walked towards a new beginning in life.

That was ten years ago.

A million steps later, we have arrived at a milestone. Our Golden anniversary.

Looking back, that first step that we had planted together on the red carpet ten years ago, signified the beginning of our journey as husband and wife. In the space of the last decade, we have evolved and grown in so many ways, moving forward together, one event and one grey hair at a time. 

We have witnessed the passing of several of our loved ones and mourned for the loss of them. We celebrated the births of our beatiful children, and watched as they stumble and fall, and made progress at their own pace.  

Our lives also changed. Over the past ten years, there were some changes that were big, and others that were small. Our progression from a couple to parenthood made the most drastic changes to our lifestyle. Nights out that lasted till the wee hours and glorious sleep ins till noon have become quiet nights in and early rises in the mornings laden with responsibilities. 

Eating out no longer meant a table for two at a cosy corner. Instead, we looked out for places that were big and child friendly, and had clean baby chairs. Every meal revolved around the presence of wet wipes, hand sanitisers and plastic forks and spoons. 

Some of our characteristics were also transferred onto each other. Initially polar opposites, the gradual rubbing off each other over the years have caused the differences to somehow, meld together. Some of my likes became yours, and some of your dislikes became mine. 

You lost your ability to detect the off putting smell of pork, while I gained your sense of sensitivity in meat products. You, the ‘chinaman’, could now tolerate more bread in your diet, while I a previous bread-lover, became a fan of rice. The differences were subtle, and yet huge considering how far we both started out initially at opposite ends of the spectrum.

After 10 years, we have become, in your words, 老夫老妻了. There is no more a need for showy displays of love and affection. In my personal dictionery, little thoughtful acts and sacrifices that you do for me, matter much more than flowers, presents and lavish dining. (Although I do enjoy a good gorge-out at buffets from time to time.) These simple, everyday acts are what love is to me.

Love is all these and more.

Love is being the one that gets up earlier on weekends to keep an eye on the kids, so that I can sleep in a little later.

Love is fetching me to and fro, even if it means forsaking sleep after coming home from work at 5 am.

Love is always letting me have the bathroom first, no matter how hot and tired you are.

Love is giving me that only piece of dumpling in your bowl of noodles.

Love is offering me the cheeks of your fishead - the tenderest part of all, and helping to de-shell the prawns and crabs.

Love is sharing everything on a plate, right down to that egg on the plate of mee rebus, and letting me have that last piece of potato chip.

Love is loving each others' parents, and showing appreciation and respect to them.

Love is buying me penang tau sar pia, (I love those!) even though you only went to KL.

Love is filling up the petrol tank when you see it getting low, even though I am the one that is using the car.

Love is your warm hand on mine, and our footsteps side by side.

Love is quiet, constant, steady.

Our milestone of ten years. Let's continue on our journey towards many more decades to come.

Happy Tenth Anniversary, my Darling.

I love you.

Imagine.

During one recent evening, L came to me holding onto two stones that she had randomly picked from downstairs. Two black stones rested in her little palms, as her eyes eager and bright, asked if I could 'turn these stones into diamonds' for her to put on her crown.

My little girl has asked some of the oddest questions before, but this one totally floored me. Although children often think the world of their parents and our ability to make wrong things right again, this was obviously beyond the parental 'superpowers' that I owned. 

I could kiss away the pain of cuts and bruises. 

I could soothe sadness and angry red rashes better.

I could dry tears and hug away fears.

I could fix broken toys and turn a frown into a smile. 

But there was no way I could turn rocks into diamonds.

I didn't know how to react. I wondered if I should chuckle at her silliness, or encourage her little mind of magic and fairytales. Should I explain the harsh fact of reality, or indulge in her sense of wonder? 

Her mannerisms reminded me of someone I knew a long time ago. A little girl that was me, when I was an eager believer in all things magical.

When I was a little girl, I adored Walt Disney's movies. I'd marvel in all the magic that each show contained, and secretly imagined that I was a princess. I remembered The Little Mermaid most vividly because it was the last movie that I caught in the string of Walt Disney shows. 

I'd cringed whenever Ursala came on, and loved all the songs sung by Ariel, specifically 'Part Of Your World'. I memorised all the lyrics and sang when I was in the shower or when I was alone. Whenever I went swimming, I would dive down to the bottom of the pool and imagined myself touching the ocean floor.

Somewhere in between, I also gravitated towards books. I read several titles here and there, some books by Roald Dahl, and coincidentally chanced upon books titled The Little Princess and The Little Prince to name a few. The contents of these books are recalled in varying degrees of vagueness. But all that I remembered reading were books of fiction and fantasy. 

Of all my books, I remembered most the books of Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood and the Faraway Tree. I'd delight myself in their world and imagined what it would be like climbing up the tree to have tea with Moon-face and his friends, or visit whatever lands that swung by at the top.

As I grew a little older into secondary school, grades, school work and hanging out with friends took up a big part of my life. I read less until I didn't read anymore. And once I graduated into the world of adulthood, fiction and fantasy had totally lost its hold over me. Reality in all its glory and responsibilities had crowded into my life and stealthily elbowed away the ability to dream and to believe. 

In its place, performances and figures held importance. Issues like how I could get moving on in life held importance. Facing my father's impending passing, held importance. 

Time was constantly and ruthlessly moving onwards. There was none left to look back, and to stop and dream. I had lost myself in the world of reality, until I lost the ability to believe.

I should have encouraged her sense of magic and weaved a tale of how a fairy might come and turn those stones into diamonds if she was good. Instead, my trigger response then was to launch into an explaination on why it was impossible to turn stones into diamonds. I watched as she walked away disappointedly, instantly regretful to have killed off a portion of her sense of imagination with my grown-up response.

Growing up into a realistic adult is great. But she is barely only five years old and adulthood is far away still for her. I'm sure she could be indulged with more years of wondrous, magical imagination before growing older.

L's recent request was a reminder of the magical moments that I once believed in, and the imagination that I used to own. I had a lovely childhood and I'd want nothing less for her to own.

Now, how do I turn two stones into diamonds?