Long, long journey

City lights shine on the harbor
Night has fallen down
Through the darkness and the shadow
I will still go on

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go
But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Where the road runs through the valley
Where the river flows
I will follow every highway
To the place I know

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go

But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Long Long Journey
I don't know where
Long Long way to go
But what are sighs and what is sadness to the heart that's coming home?

Chorus:
Long Long Journey
Through the darkness
Long Long way to go
But what are miles across the ocean to the heart that's coming home?

Long Long Journey
Out Of Nowhere
Long Long way to go
But what are sighs and what is sadness to the heart that's coming home?

Letter

I tried to write a letter to my parents, almost immediately after hearing the 'news' on Sunday. I began... but I am not sure how to finish it. For once, perhaps, I am lost for words, and not sure what to write.

I wanted to write to them, to console them, to tell them that things will be alright. But somehow I feel like if I do that, I am sort of lying through my writing, and that is the worst kind of writing.

I want to write to them, to tell them that they should not be afraid, to somehow make up for me not being able to stand by their side as they undergo the chemo therapy... but no words, not even all the metaphors, similes and flowery language that I can splash across the page can ever compensate for the touch of a hand when you are afraid and needing to be held.

I want to write to them, to tell them about my life, and how great it is going, despite the ups and downs, so that they will not worry and have to think about whether I am eating well or dressed warm enough. But somehow my letters in the past used to make them cry, because they are that powerful and filled with emotions. And the last thing I want to make them do is cry.

So I am facing a half-written, or perhaps half-finished however you look at it, letter.

A letter that is missing and longing for the other half.

Cancer

I could have cried when she told me. Burst out, emotions and all. Probably could have yelled out, in pain. But I held my tears, because once they fell, she could hear me crying on the phone, and I would not be the good brave boy who stands up after falling.

Dad has been hospitalised. Xrays reveal gray dotted areas have spread on his liver, and are now reaching his lungs. But he continues to smoke, and pretends as if he is strong enough to take it. I imagine his face, his eyes... I remember the way he used to rock me to sleep in his arms, as he told me stories he made up on the spot...

He is weak, mum said, sometimes even having difficulty walking especially with his worsening diabetes... And they have to restart the chemo again. Hair might fall out. They dare not put too much dosage, for his body may not be strong enough to take it... He is moody, and doesn't like to be told that he shouldn't smoke at all. I remember the smell of cigarettes on his fingers, and the sound of his sometimes coarse, but at the same time soft, voice which I have not heard in many, many months....

My hands shivered, and I closed my eyes. To stop the tears falling, and falling. I remembered the nightmares that I often have at night... scenes of me watching dad suffer and choke from his coughing... scenes of him dying, and me, helpless and weak, and unable to stop it...

Mum's voice continued, sometimes wavering, sometimes weak. She was afraid to tell me, afraid I would worry too much about then, afraid that I have enough stress from my work. I told her I can take it, and that I'd prefer if she told me everything.

Dad is not the only one who has to undergo chemo again. Two new lumps were discovered. The doctors had said that this would be a possibility. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, "I had made plans to come see you and stay with you in March, but it wasn't meant to be..."

It wasn't meant to be. I swallowed and as bravely as I could sound, I told her not to worry about that, not to worry about my ungrateful, selfish brother or his girlfriend, or about the house here. "Please just take good care of yourself," I said slowly, "And please just tell dad to take good care of himself. I can handle the rest. I really can." Because I always have.

Two bombshells within the timespan of five minutes. Outside the winds howled, and barren trees danced lifelessly to the sorry tune against a bleak gray sky...

I had expected it, I had known it was simply lurking around the corner, trying to entice me whenever it could, trying to taunt me, however it would. But I never realised it would be this hard to hear it, to really hear it, and know that it is happening.

The sanitised smell of the hospital hallway. The clean white linen of the ward that somehow never seem, and never can be, clean enough. And somewhere, out there, is my dad.

I wish I could take away his pains, his fears, his tears deep down inside, and just tell him that it would all be alright, that it will all pass like all things in life. Tell and reassure him, as he told and reassured me, when I was little and hurt. But between us spans the distances of time and oceans. Soft little words, so difficult to say, so hard to hear.

Take care, take care...