Vegetable vendor

Her hands were rough, and dry, like bark. Her nails dirty from soil and toil.

"Fresh vegetables from the mountains!" she called out. And then I recognised her. Those eyes, that careless and uncombed tuft of hair with fringes of white, and a mole just above her upper lip. She has a smile, small but infectious, one that distracts from her deep wrinkles and wind-beaten cheeks. Normally she sells her basketfuls of greens up in the mountains nearby. Spinach, cabbage, carrots, leeks, onions, and vegetables I do not even know the names of. Whenever we go up there, we would buy from her. Fresh, home-grown and exchange a chat or two. Perhaps the festivities had driven her down to the city in hope of a little more money to welcome the new year.

Her shoes were worn, having been worn for who knows how long already. The threads had split, giving away to a little hole that revealed the roughnes of her foot. She wore a yellow windbreaker, the surface of which had remnants of dry mud, and the traces of raindroplets. "Fresh, these are all fresh from the ground. I cut them a few hours ago. At 2am."

"2am?! Wasn't cold then?" A chill blew, as if in response.

"Yes, but I have to if I want to get to market on time," she said. I looked at her rough hands again, dry and rough like bark, and tried to imagine her gathering vegetables under the cover of dense, dense gray clouds, braving the howl and cold of gale force winds at 2am while the rest of the world slept soundly in warm beds.

"And your husband helped you?"

"He returned. Last year," she answered. A Taiwanese euphemism for someone who passed away.

"Mine too, on new year's eve of all days," my mum said.

And right there, was a shared moment. Shared grief, sorrow, yet also of shared comfort, and a momentary silence that seemed to quietly say "I understand how you feel". Especially on this eve before the new year.

Around us, the usual din of the market, of vendors' calls, of cars buzzing by continued, drowning our thoughts.

One year on

My words singed, turned brown, and then disintegrated into charcoal black. Gentle words, words of gratitude, words of description, powerful words that convey my feelings and confusions throughout the year, words in black and white, words that transcend time and space. Now and forever, lost, consumed by the bright orange creatures of fire and smoke that grew ever stronger as they tossed their heads and hands in a colourful dance. In the great big stack of burning paper, in the midst of soot and at times unbearable and uncontrollable flames, the letter I had written to my dad disappeared into a heap of ash before my eyes. Small pieces of paper, fueled by lively flames, took flight and hovered, up, up into the heavens. Offerings, prayers and wellwishes for those who have already moved on.

More than 14 hours had passed since arrived at the grounds where dad's remains have been laid to rest almost a year earlier. We woke early to avoid the rush hour traffic, and ventured through the mist to the Pacific coast. Even now, I can still see how against the stark and pitch, pitch black silhouette of mountains, the dawn sky gradually brightened. A silvery sliver of the moon hung almost unnoticed and too shy to shine up above. The same moon, a little shier, would return to accompany us on our long journey up and down the island as part of an elaborate ceremony to commemorate the anniversary of dad's death.

One year after one's death is a special event here, and a pivotal milestone on the road to reincarnation. In local beliefs, the world of the living and the dead intersect and interact in a symbiotic nature. True to Taiwanese customs, the spirit of the deceased is believed to linger in the world after death. To offer the spirit a home, immediately after death, high priests or Buddhist monks are called in to direct the spirit into small wooden memorial plaques, which are worshipped and kept in temples or even in people's houses.

It may sound strange to be offering food, flowers and incence to a piece of wood. Even stranger when some bow and kowtow before a little piece of wood with a few scribbles on it. But somehow a plaque bearing names of the ancestors and forefathers (and -mothers) offers hope and comfort. Like all rituals and rites, remembering the deceased, honouring those who came before us gives people solice, and perhaps a way of self-therapy to deal with the inevitable loss and death of a loved one. Respect, reverence and remembering the ancestors is a way to preserve virtues and values of gratitude, appreciation and humility.

Frogs croaked, and crickets cried. A feel of dew blew through the light sea breeze as night dropped its dark curtains. In the distance, I could hear the waves of the ocean washing and flowing against the shore. I looked back at the day that had come and gone. I have long longed for this day to come. Not out of anticipation, I do not think, and certainly not out of excitement, but perhaps more out of a feeling that I wish to be able to come to terms with the permanent absence of my dad in my life. Even (or maybe especially?) one year later.

The light scent of fresh flowers, the pungent smell of fresh fruits and dad's favourite dishes and delicacies. Before the ancestorial plaque I stood, eyes closed, hands cupped together in reverence. The little piece of wood looked insignificant, yet bore the marks and scribbles of much emotional and family history. At the day's end, I had learned that I am but a little link in a long lineage that spans over four generations, or possibly more. I saw the names of my ancestors. People who lived in times when the island was considered a hideout for ruffians and pirates... people who lived during the Japanese colonial era... people who underwent prosecution and the terror of the invading Chinese Nationalist government. People I never knew existed, but somehow felt a close connection to, even though we have never met, and never will. Reading their names, I tried to imagine their faces, their lives and voices. Pasts and lives forever lost, yet have always been a part of who I am today, and where I come from.

Closer to my generation, I could identify names that sounded more familiar, and picture lives that were once part of my own. There was my grandfather, who raised six children and sent them all to university just by repairing bicycles... my grandmother, memories of whose calming smile and kindness can still bring me to tears... And the most recent addition, the name of my own dear dad, whose voice and face often still dwells in my thoughts and dreams.

The bell chimed, the night mist grew dense. The frogs still croaked, and the sea still ebbed and flowed, as it has done over and over again in the past year, in the past decades and centuries. The natural cycles and movements of the world continues, in life and long after death.

In the flames that consumed my letter to my dad, and mesmorised my thoughts of the people who came before me, I felt calm, surprisingly peaceful and blessed.

Chemo-ordeal

"Ouch...! It hurts a lot", she cried. From a distance, I sat on a chair and watched her cringe and frown as the needle penetrated the skin. The syringe, and the long, winding plastic tube which flowed from it, immediately dyed blood red.

Hospitals are not merry places. Mum said she felt nauseated as soon as she could smell that particular scent of medicine and disinfecting solution. The smell of sickness, perhaps even of death. Harrowing, the sound of faceless patients coughing, wheezing, holding onto dear life for that much longer.

I looked at their faces, many half hidden behind a breathing mask. But the sorrow, the pain, tears and fears cannot easily be hidden. It shows in their sullen and sunken eyes, in their skin darkened by poisonous chemicals aimed to kill cancerous cells, yet at the same time break and weaken patients and rob them of life. I closed my eyes, and inside wished that these people around me, and so many sick and dying people everywhere, may somehow find some sort of comfort, a little semblance of happiness. Even in suffering.

Two more days of chemo-ordeal begins again.

Note

I saw a little piece of scrap paper today. Just a piece of paper, probably not more different from any other. Yet one side were a few words scribbled on:

"Staying at [the hospital]!
The lottery [ticket] is for the living expenses!
Keys for 1) motorcycle 2) mail box."

That was all. Just a few short and simple sentences. But perhaps the last words that dad ever wrote. Later, mum explained that that was the note she found one day. They had not talked for a while, yet the words carried that dry sense of humour and that sense of caring that dad could never really easily express in person. A few days later, he passed away.

I looked at that piece of scrap paper, and stroked the paper, feeling the texture, feeling the beautifully written words as if they somehow carried more than the green felt-tip pen they were written with. There was a connection to a past, a history and story that soon will be one year old.
Dad's potrait sits silently on his bedside table, his bed has been unused since he left. In the closet, his suits still hang, and his scent lingers on.

And in my mind, thoughts of him linger on too.