Her first letter came to her neatly folded in a brown envelope.
The boy who passed her the envelope—who could not have been older than six — told her that an elderly man had tasked him to deliver this letter to her. There was no postage or a sender’s address, and only her first name was written in the middle in pencil. In a state of confusion she accepted the letter, but before she could question the boy regarding the mysterious sender’s identity, he had disappeared around the corner, leaving her alone under the shade of a Gingko tree. She peered down at the thin package in her hands, one corner slightly burnt and stained with grease from the little boy’s fingers. She decided she would interrogate the boy about the sender’s identity if he ever came back on another errand.
Her gaze fell upon the carefully handwritten name on the envelope. The sender’s handwriting was neat and round, the kind that made her ordinary name feel special. For a moment she had a strange feeling that she knew the sender, though it was impossible to say if this feeling came from a memory or a dream. She would have to read the letter to find out.
The envelope was not sealed shut. From this she concluded that whatever contained within may not have been as important as she had thought. Despite having no reason to feel this nervous, knowing this fact allowed her to relax her shoulders temporarily, an unconscious action that brought instant relief to the rest of her body. Exhaling deeply, she flipped the envelope and opened it slowly, careful not to crease the edges. There was only a single piece of paper. She pulled it out and began to read…
Dark rolling clouds threatened to drench the earth. I watched as frantic individuals rushed to their windows one after another to save their poles of laundry from the impending storm. From my point of view, their frenzy was unnecessary. According to this afternoon’s weather report, the heavy rain was expected to last overnight into the morning. Unless these folks are planning to blow-dry each article of clothing, any wet laundry not dried by the next morning will definitely have to be washed again. A regrettable situation for sure, but life goes on.
“Mummy, how’s your fever?”
This snapped me out of my people-watching and I turned to see my husband making his way towards me, dusting off the ashes coating his hands as he walked. Ever since our oldest daughter turned two, he had enthusiastically started to address me as “mummy” in a bid to encourage her to speak. His strategy worked eventually, as it did for our second and third, although the last was quite a tough nut to crack, having shown zero interest in interacting with anyone until he was close to four. At the time we pretended not to be worried, but when the little one finally opened his mouth to make a human sound, my husband had to choke back tears of joy. For the next couple of months, he taught our youngest the word “mummy”, tirelessly repeating it to him whenever a chance presented itself. Over time, doing this became a habit that our family adopted naturally. To us, “mummy” was a word that transcended its simple meaning and held the memories of a family. My family.
“You should go upstairs to rest for a bit, your parents’ neighbours from Block 418 just left.” I must have murmured something in agreement, because by the time I had processed what he had said, I was already out of my chair.
“Come back at 7pm for the rites.” A light squeeze on my left shoulder. I nodded this time.
I decided to take the stairs and was panting by the time I got to the fifth storey. The door to my parents’ unit was wide open, its metal gates rusted from decades of use. All the lights in the flat have been left on. In that moment, a sudden wave of nausea rushed through me, and I had to hold onto the door frame to steady myself. When I held my head back up, I noticed that we had accidentally left a piece of Chinese New Year decoration on the main door.
出入平安, it read. Be safe wherever you go.
I reached up to take it down carefully, then placed it facedown on the dining table. Like always, the table was cluttered with a variety of items — unopened letters, an unfinished loaf of bread, a jar of assorted peanuts, some loose change, a safety pin, and a pair of nail clippers. The radio on the kitchen stand had been left tuned to the Hokkien channel. On the wall, a calendar tells me today’s date — 10 May 2021.
I left the kitchen and made my way to the living room, the same hallway now felt strangely cold and unfamiliar. Passing by my parents’ bedroom, I heard a sound that made me turn my head in surprise — a pigeon, perched on the window grille and pecking at something on the ledge. I rushed to shoo it away, and when it was gone, proceeded to shut the windows and draw the dusty curtains together. In the regained silence, I remembered how my father used to nag at me to keep his windows open. “这样才通风”, he would say in Hokkien as he pushed past me to open the windows himself. Ventilation was a perennial problem, especially in this faded building surrounded by similar concrete structures. “You don’t how hot it gets in the day, you don’t live here.”
Despite the warm weather, a neatly folded blanket lay at the foot of the bed. Two pillows, one with a clear imprint of a human head, occupied the space on top. I could almost picture him lying down for one of his afternoon naps, lightly snoring as the ceiling fan cast moving shadows on the floor. I placed my hand on it to feel the remnants of his warmth, but all I could feel was the heat from my own feverish body.
As I stood up to leave, a piece of paper on the floor caught my eye. I bent over to pick it up. It was a handwritten letter in Chinese, addressed to a “beloved” and signed off without a name. The writing was simple, the words big and round, completed with powerful strokes. It was a handwriting that I instantly recognised.
His writing desk sat in the dimmest corner of the room. On it, a yellowing lamp directed my attention to a few stray pieces of paper scattered across the surface, but these were empty. Three pencils of varying lengths were being conveniently used as paperweights. All of this was new to me. The only times I ever saw my father write was during Chinese New Year, when he would write auspicious phrases on red papers and give them to me to be used as decorations around the house. He never said so, but I could tell that he was proud of his calligraphy. In that moment, I regretted never asking him about where and from whom he had learned his craft from.
Placing the fallen letter on the desk, I slid open the drawers to search for more writings he may have left behind. On my third try, I found a bunch of envelopes tied securely together with a red string, each decorated at the front with the same handwritten name. I ran my index finger over it. The surface was smooth and cool, as if the name was printed on. A name all too familiar to both my father and I. My mother’s name.
Some of the letters — I counted 26 of them — dated back to before my mother’s death. I removed the first envelope from the pile, the oldest of them all, to take a closer look. He had not sealed it, opting instead to tuck the flap into the envelope itself. Gently, I retrieved the folded letter inside, holding my breath as I did so, bracing myself for something unexpected. The rhythmic hum of the ceiling fan accompanied me as I sat down and began to read…
It was not a long letter, and she had reached the end quicker than expected. For a few minutes, she held the letter up to her face, pondering its contents. When she brought her hands to her face, she realised it was wet. Why was she crying? She felt an answer stirring within, a vague silhouette of a figure forming in her consciousness, but she could not access that part of her memory. Her head throbbed.
Just then, she sensed the presence of someone coming towards her. Looking up, she saw an elderly man with a walking stick, his steps slow but purposeful. It was him! She was sure of it.
Something about his gait tugged at her memories. Time seemed to come to a standstill as leaves from the Gingko tree drifted down, showering them in gold. His name almost escaped her lips right as he stood in front of her. In that moment, she finally understood why she was crying.
The old man smiled gently at her. He raised his right hand to wipe away her tears. It was a touch she knew all too well.
“I’m here.”
Beloved,
Today during dinner you asked me who I was. It was a question that I’ve gotten used to hearing at least once a day, and today was no different. Although it hurts to think that you may have forgotten my name, seeing you smile when I talk to you is enough for me.
Last week, the doctor told me to prepare for the worst. I’m not sure what he means by that. How do I prepare for something like this? But since then I’ve thought about it, and now I have a rough plan of what I am going to do when that day comes.
On the day of your departure, I will take good care of your funeral. Allow me to dress you in your favourite clothes, and to thank our neighbours and relatives for coming. Let me kneel down for the rites and sit by your side for the last time. Then, allow me to grieve alone for a day. Let me keep your belongings and take another look at the photos from our wedding. Give me some time to fold the laundry and clean the house. When that’s done, allow me to write letters to you — letters that I will have someone deliver to you, to remind you of me before we see each other again.
Rest assured that I will find you soon. Until then, allow me to stay here for a while to take care of everything.
Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. A faint rainbow could be seen over streaks of sunlight falling upon the wet pavement. It was a nice morning. I thought about the families keeping their laundry and wondered if they saw the same sky as I did.
A sneeze brought my attention back to the present. I observed quietly as friends and family moved forward to pay their last respects. Gradually, the coffin piled up with flowers and gifts of all shapes and sizes, things that people brought specially from home only to part with them again here.
When the last of them were done, my husband squeezed my arm gently. I turned to look at him. He flashed me a weak smile. I smiled back.
Moving forward, the echoes of my footfall reverberated around the cold auditorium. When I reached the podium, the place was silent, save for a few sniffs.
I gazed down at the parcel and felt its weight in my hands. It was a gift brought specially from home — all 26 of them. I know Pa and Ma will be happy to receive them.
End.
Notes
I had been wanting to write a story about memories for the longest time but was lacking the inspiration to do so until quite recently. I hope that bits and pieces of this story will feel familiar to everyone reading it, because these are inescapable moments that we will have to go through in life. Even though the happy memories of our departed family are often tinged with sadness, the feelings that we have reflect how real and important these memories are to us.
In his final months, my Ah Gong had trouble remembering our names. Yet whenever he sees me, he flashes me his signature grin and that’s when I know he has not forgotten me.
I miss you. This story is for you.
