Some things might change sooner than others, some might not
But all things are perishable

Francesco Clemente

turtle fresh out of its shell

(wrote this a year after his death, found it again this morning) 

Last year, when my dad was dying at the hospital, I was in the car with my sister, and we were rushing back from KL to see him. When we arrived at the hospital, it was 3 something in the morning and the security guards let us in without any questions. I had no clue what reactions to display or what right emotions to be aware of. Fifth floor and through a narrow green corridor with families sleeping on tikar and thin blankets, we saw him. The body before us was covered from head to toe, but I knew it must be him.

We were too late.

Relatives were by his bedside, some were weeping from a distance and some chanted. My mother, tanned and weary was chanting Amitabha, we joined in and robotically chanted together. The cloth that covered him was bright yellow, shiny and with Chinese characters written all over. I read some of the words; they were supposed to protect him on his journey.

I also read somewhere that when a person dies, he/she experiences a contact that is beyond speech, and the closest way to put it, is to imagine a ‘turtle fresh out of its shell’, so sensitive towards its surrounding that a whisper is like the sound of thunders, and a cry breaks a heart into pieces infinite in numbers. 

That was why we held our tears.

I wondered how my dad was coping with his new ‘out of shell’ experience.

My dad died in a General Hospital and in the 3rd class wad, it was an open space filled with single hospital beds as close to each other as possible. One ceiling fan for four patients and it worked well on rainy days but failed on any other given days. When my dad died, the fan was spinning slowly, and I remembered how his neighbours pretended to be asleep.

The nurses who were usually talented at displaying their discontent were now silent.

They pretended not to notice; some tried to show condolences or sympathy but failed miserably.

Then the bearded man came to ‘transfer’ the body to our chosen obituary hall; like a parade in a ghostly town, we marched with the bearded man who put a silver lid on my dad’s dead body like a turkey waiting to be served. We left the main building behind and arrived at a depressing little one. 

I stood next to my dad and saw his feet. They were so tensed, as though stretching to reach somewhere very far, distinct blue river veins frozen underneath a cold pale film. 

My dad is dead. At that moment, I was still reminding myself of this fact, and how naive I was to think that I knew then what death is. ...

爸爸早已原谅我的不孝
一直都知道最难原谅的是我自己

离群索居

别再找我了，我不要了
我去寻找能释放我的真理
没名也罢
没钱也罢
红尘越来越没有吸引力

习惯性的让键盘打出文字，今天突然心血来潮要抄书，
一笔一画很痛快。

我愛文字但美麗誠懇動人的文字深藏不露，
逃出來的也只是輕言妄語。

頌

春有百花秋有月
夏有涼風冬有雪
若無閒事挂心頭

便是人間好時節