Clothes

This afternoon, I sat in a cafe close to home. Around a week ago, I was in the same cafe, having just finished a light lunch, and seated down to enjoy my flower tea which is supposed to soothe the mind. Then the phone suddenly rang. It was from the hospital. Dad's condition went from stable to critical again, and it does not look good. I nearly dropped my cup in my haste and rush to the hospital. I made it, to spend the last half an hour or so with dad. Later dad passed away.

Together with mum and brother, I picked out dad's favourite clothes. Taiwanese tradition says that at the moment of burial or cremation, the deceased must wear clothes that he likes to wear most in order to have a good 'passing' to the next life. At the foot of his coffin, we were also asked to place other sets of dad's pajamas, undergarments, socks, shirts and jackets. Even the deceased need to change.

I shifted through dad's cupboard, my nostrils tickled with the scent of fabric softener, closet freshener, and the scent of dad. It is a mixture of scents which whenever I bury my nose in the fabric and close my eyes cause this strange calmness and tranquility within to take over. I picked out a black tailored suit , which still had the original labels on the sleeves. Dad had them made the year before his retirement, but because he was always so thrifty and so hard on himself, he never wore it. I picked out a white striped shirt, the collar of which was a little gray and worn out. Of the underwear he had, most of no more than rags, and some even had holes in them. Dad would often joke that they kept him cool, especially in the sweltering heat of Summers in Taiwan. Of the T-shirts he had, many I recognise from years ago. One was from more than ten years ago, in the Summer of '94, when we took a vacation to the States... another was a T-Shirt which I got after my high school graduation trip to Spain. Both were worn out, and the markings and wordings have become faded. Dad had taken them to wear, even though there were a dozen brand new clothes lying around unopened and still in their original wrapping. He was such a person, who had a lot to spare, a lot to give to others, especially to me, but never gave enough to himself, and never really had the opportunity to enjoy the luxury and good life he had built up from scratch.

In the drawers were old pictures of dad. Some taken so many years ago, when I did not even exist. He looked so young, so energetic then. He was skinny, like me, and always had tanned skin, which my brother inherited. The oldest son of a poor family from southern Taiwan, he was the first son to go to university and was attracted to the bright lights and big city of Taipei, where he soon became a little bank clerk. Dad worked his way up, gaining promotions and recognition through hardwork and dedication, and eventually won an opportunity to go abroad to work. Because of dad, my life, and the life of my whole family changed dramatically. Without dad, I probably would not be writing this now.

Dad once told me he came to the big city with just two thousand New Taiwan Dollars, which in today's terms can just about pay for a good meal at a nice restaurant. He saved every penny, and sent much to my grandparents for their pension. He married my mum, worked two jobs, bought a motorbike, then a car, then a house, then another house. Dad worked till he fell ill, till he became depressed, and for many years dad lived an isolated life with himself and his books.
I often tried to cheer him up, console him, and tell him that he should enjoy his retirement, and enjoy the fruits of his own success and prosperity. But dad's happiness and health continued to ail. In the past year or so, I heard little from him, and could not easily reach him. Last month, when he entered the hospital for chemo therapy, he was jubilant and had faith in the treatment. He said when he returns, he wants to finally buy the big 44 inch plasma screen TV dad has been looking at for sometime. "If I'm going to be home so often now," he told my mum, "might as well make it comfortable and enjoyable." And then he was gone.

He once told me that when he was young, he could not afford the luxury of good food or relaxation, but now that he can afford it, his health cannot. But even so, he always made sure I had enough, and even more than enough. I held onto the old clothes, and browsed through the old picture albums of me and dad on trips here and there, I began to feel the sadness creep up on me. I feel it oftentimes these days, between rushing from place to place to deal with funeral arrangements and everything that dad left behind. That emptiness and hollow feeling of feeling nothing in a place deep inside which once was filled with something concrete you could point to, something solid you could touch and speak of. Now there are only memories. Memories, and little pieces of paper with dad's scribbles, and little cards and letters I had sent dad in the past to tell him how much I appreciate his sacrifices, and to tell him how he must take better care of himself.

The empty bed, the empty bedroom, and now the empty cupboards and drawers. Remnants and reminders of my dad who worked so hard, but did not have the time or place to enjoy himself.