Departing

This time tomorrow, I should be on the plane, flying over the ocean, further and further away from land. This time tomorrow, I should be leaving home, to go home.

How I will miss this country, and the people! The friends who have been there to support me, the relatives and family who have been there to welcome me into their arms, and even the strangers who out of nowhere appeared to guide me when I am lost. On this eve of my departure, I think back at the many days that have gone by since I landed on this little island more than a month ago, and I remember all those people with gratitude and with a smile.

What a trip it has been! Of tears, smiles, sadness, and reconciliation. So sudden, and so full of surprises, and now it is coming to an end. Death and illness I have experienced up close, and I have been able to deal with both with an equanimous mind, and come out somewhat stronger and more at peace than ever before.

Music

Once more, much of the food was untouched. We sat down to a quiet dinner, and seeing mum eat so little, how could I eat?

In the background, the stereo played one of mum's favourite music pieces. "The sound of bell emitted in the evening from an ancient temple" (古剎晚鐘) it is called. A beautiful recording of the chiming of bells and percussion instruments that evoke a feeling of serenity as well as awe. Mum said the music used to make her cry whenever she heard it. Sitting opposite me at the dinner table tonight, her eyes seemed to water.

She recounted the days in the past while dad was still around. Though they did not speak much to one another, it was still somewhat 'comforting' to know someone is at home with you. After I am gone coming Saturday, there will just be an empty house.　

I really cannot say much, except console her by telling her that it will not be that bad. There are plenty of things she can do to fulfill her time... like do caligraphy writing and drawing, do TaiChi, and meet up with her good friends for a day of fun and food. She seemed to be less sad after I said that.

The soup became cold as we chatted. Mum recalled a CD which I had not had the opportunity to open yet. Perhaps I unconsciously dread seeing the contents... I first got ahold of it on the eve of dad's death. The doctors had burned a CD containing dad's medical records and X-Rays, which they wanted to show us. But dad passed away even before there was a chance to do so. Mum said she cannot bear to see those pictures, at least not yet. Her eyes watered as she told me that it was in January when they first discovered that the cancer had started to spread from dad's liver to his lungs. Then, there were only a few gray areas on his lungs... within a month those gray areas had become large patches of fresh infection. "How quick it happened... too quick..."

Speaking to mum in the past few weeks, I think dad's passing has had a great impact on her in many ways. Not just losing someone she's been married to almost three decades, but also a subtle realisation of the seriousness of her own illness. Before she would be unable to let go of her work and worry about all sorts of things, but now she is slowly realising nothing is more precious than dear life. Or at least, that is what she says.

I looked at her, and told her like I have repeatedly said many times before. Be happy... be happy and enjoy every moment that life has to offer. Everything else is but an extra.

Unwell

Immediately after returning from my trip south, I headed to the hospital. Mum's scheduled chemo therapy began Saturday, and lasted until today.

It was a grueling process, and she was restless in that room. Tubes were connected to an artificially installed vessel around her right shoulder, and the cancer-killing medicine was slowly infused into her body. The first day, she could eat like she normally would, but on the second day she lost her appetite. Just the smell of really pungent food made her nauseous. I looked on, watching her worried and tired expressions with worry and helplessness.

The minutes passed by slowly, and even slower for my mum. I would bring her fresh food and cut fruits, but she would only eat a little. We passed the time reading, watching senseless TV shows and sensationalist news that is repeated over and over again. We meditated together too, and that seemed to give us moments of peace, if only for a little while. Occasionally I would take her for a walk... merely up and down the corridor, eight, nine or even ten times the same route, because the nurses said it is best not to go out, because her immune system would be vulnerable. And, well, it would not look very good in her pink hospital wear.

I slept next to my mum, on this narrow green sofa which was too short for my legs. It was uncomfortable, and I would wake up everyday feeling more tired and somewhat feeling really unwell ... but being able to watch my mum as she lay there peacefully asleep made all the sores and discomfort go away.

The nurses were so kind and so helpful it was touching to see. There was one nurse who worked the early evening shift until midnight everyday. Her voice was so soft and soothing, and whenever she came to check up on my mum she would stay and chit-chat, and reassure my mum that it is all going well, and that there is nothing to worry about. Now and then, she would take my mum by the hand and hold her to give her support. When I left this morning, I went to this special nurse and thanked her, thanked her wholehearted for all that she has done. All she did was smile and nod at me, as if to tell me that this is all part of her work.

Mum's face lit up instantly as the doctor came to say that she can go home again. To her, staying there seemed like a prison, and she would, if she could, rush home that very moment. We packed our bags and made our way home. But soon, tiredness began to show on her face, even though we were barely home yet.

The first thing she did was lie down, and mum immediately fell asleep. Her hair wild on her pillows, her arms limp at her side, her eyes closed under saggy lids...

While she rested I went to the market to pick up lots of fresh and nutritious foods. After chemo, the most important thing is to make up for the lost cells and energy by eating well and eating a high-protein diet, so as to prepare for the next chemo session. Tonight, I made her fresh miso-soup with salmon bits and tofu, made a little stir-fried greens, and warmed up some turnip cakes that she loves to eat.

She only had a little to eat, and took only one sip of the soup before putting it down again. "I'm sorry... I know you meant well, but I really don't feel like eating." She went back to rest soon after, leaving the soup still full, the fish and tofu bits untouched.

Journey South

The train sped through the across the land, rice paddies and banana trees fuzzily flew past outside my window. Cities that previously took hours to reach are now merely tens of minutes apart. As a train fan, this huge transportation revolution was much anticipated, and I remember a few years ago I went to a special exhibition to gather as much information about the Shinkansen 700-T as I could. Though I was exhausted from the accumulation of lack of sleep and running around, riding the new 300km/hr Taiwan High Speed Rail (台灣高鐵) made me extremely giddy and excited.

Just hours before, Dad's urn was placed into the 'deposit box' in a temple in Jinshan. It would be his final resting place, and it seemed that the whole procedure went on smoothly. As we rode up the mountain to the temple, it was drizzling, and gray. But after dad's bones and ashes were set in place, the sun began to shine. A good omen, tradition says. The door of the deposit box was sealed, and we stood there momentarily, each silently speaking to dad.

Almost exactly one month after dad passed away, entering the urn temple was (for the time being) the last ritual that has to be observed. We had carefully chosen an urn cut from amber-coloured marble. The piece most likely came from Taroko (太魯閣), a naturally formed gorge cut throughout the millennia by a stream that runs down from the towering mountains of central Taiwan down towards the Pacific Ocean. One of the last family outings with dad two years ago was to that very area.

Rituals and rites command observance and respect, flowing from practice that has passed down from generations ago. They offer comfort to people, for the performance of certain rituals is believed to ward of bad luck and bring prosperity and good fortunes, for the living and the dead. Yet at the same time, some rituals are at times constraining, if not incompatible with modern life. What use is all the chanting and prayers, all the paper money burning and offerings? Why must the relatives of the dead stay home and mourn for exactly 49 days? Is it not enough that each person remembers the deceased in his own way? Death is such a natural and simple matter which everyone will experience sooner or later... why make it so complicated and difficult?

So it was sort of a relief after everything was over and done with. With only around two weeks left of my stay here Taiwan, we decided to travel a bit to pay relatives and friends a visit, and also to thank them for their support throughout these difficult times.

First stop was Chiayi (嘉義), where my dad was born and where most of my relatives are. A little provincial city, most famous for its “chicken rice” (actually made from turkey meat) and for the nearby Alishan mountain resort, it is a must-go place for me. The relatives greeted us warmly and made us feel right at home. We thanked them for being there for dad, and taking care of dad all these years, and over sumptuous feasts, we talked about dad and the things that made him special. The food was exquisite, and there was more than enough for everyone who sat around the big round table which is supposed to symbolise the unity of the family. But I was not hungry, and only eating as much as I could, smiling as much as I must. Some told of the last time they saw dad, of how happy and energetic-looking he still was not more than two months ago. And now the empty extra chair looks especially empty.

It was a whirlwind trip, and I saw everyone that I wanted to see, and even visited the ancestral shrine to pay respects to my grandparents. They were the ones who raised my dad, and his five other siblings, through simply repairing bicycles and washing clothes for other people. I remember the little workshop still, which was not much bigger than perhaps 10m squared. I used to play there, and flip through the cupboards and drawers to find all sorts of rusty repair tools and nails and cogs and bike chains. And there were huge rats too, gray and swift that would run from one side of the room to the other while nobody paid attention. And then there were the stray dogs that nobody wanted, but which wandered past daily, because my grandma would kindly leave leftovers for them to eat. I spent many summers in that little house, keeping my grandma company. And only now and then would any of the children come home to visit.

That little workshops is now a brand-new four storey apartment. There is nothing left of the workshop, or of the dark, narrow corridors of the house where my dad grew up in. instead outside is the main thoroughfare, and the first floor is rented out to a lottery shop, which attracts hundreds of fortune-seekers everyday. How times have changed! All that remains are two portraits of my grandma, and my grandpa, who I have no memory of because he passed away when I was just two years old. Yet, the more I look at grandpa’s black and white portrait, the more I am reminded of my dad… the same thin, high cheeks and high forehead, the powerful eyes and bushy eyebrows, and the same faint smile.

I left Chiayi, left the hustling cars and motorcycles and the neat rice paddies that stretch on for as far as the eyes can see, and headed toward central Taiwan. Our destination was Puli, a sleepy town surrounded by mountains and famed for its scenery and unspoiled environment. Back in 1999, when one of the fiercest earthquakes in recent years struck, the region was the most devastated. Over two thousand people died, most instantly from fallen buildings, others from mountains that literally imploded or solid ground that shifted for kilometers. Today, the barren mountain tops entering Puli carry a memorial to the devastating force of nature, but slowly green is returning to land that were for many years just soil.

I first came to Puli (埔里) in the cool of early Autumn around two years ago. There lived a Theravada bhikkhu (Buddhist monk) in the mountains, they said. Many go to him seeking counseling and the Dharma, and many return home happy and temporarily enlightened by his wisdom, I heard. I went there not knowing what I would find, and only had clothes for two days. In the end I stayed for three weeks, and went back again two more times to stay there more.

It may be the magnificent scenery, overlooking a valley surrounded by mountains that change their moods as the weather transforms from moment to moment that attract me. Perhaps it is the amazing sunset, or the call of insects and croaking of frogs, or perhaps the swift, free motions of little swallows and watchful eagles circling in the skies. The loving dogs that live there make great company too. But I think, most of all, it is the tranquility that makes me so grateful for being able to discover such a wonderful place, and it is the warmth and love of those there that make the place a home I could return to whenever I wish.

This time around, I was able to take my mum and my brother along with me. Throughout all the things that have happened in the past month, and that are still happening now, I wanted nothing more than show my family this wondrous place, and let them come into contact with the bhikkhu who has been there, either in prayers or in mails, to support and cousel me whenever I am in need. Indeed, upon arrival my mum and brother became relaxed, and took in deep breaths of fresh air and the surrounding scenery, as their thoughts seemed to let go of the troubles and noises in the city.

I found some of the answers I had been searching for. Ever since dad passed away, to be honest, I have not felt much sadness or shed many tears. I feared it was simple indifference, that I was losing my 'human-ness', especially in the light of an event which would normally make any one distraught. But no, my silence and calm is not indifference, I learned, but a natural reaction which comes when you know you have done the right thing while the person was alive. Because you have nothing to regret and nothing to be remorseful about, you are able to face the death of someone with a tranquil mind and heart, like I did. Instead of sadness and tears, I smiled and at the thought of dad's kindness and felt warm just thinking of the many sacrifices dad had made. Indifference is when you feel nothing, but truth be told, I did, and still do feel dad's passing.

The bhikkhu counseled me, and I felt refreshed and touched from the fact that he could see into my mind and speak my thoughts like very few could. Once again, as with so many times in the past few weeks, I felt this surge of gratitude I cannot express... the kind of gratitude that arises from such simple acts or words of kindness from a complete stranger... from the care of nurses who were with my parents while they were in hospital... from the support family members who were there to stand by me as we struggled through difficult times. And in Puli, I felt deep gratitude toward the bhikkhu, and others, who offered my family and I shelter and comfort in times of distress and confusion; who offered us the time and the compassion and understanding so that we are able to heal gradually from having the fortune to come into contact with so much beauty and kindness.

How does one 'repay' such kindness, such compassion and support? By doing the best we can, by being kind to others, by seflessly helping and being (for)giving to others in need, or even when they are not in need. It is like that movie Pay it Forward, which stresses what goodness the kindness of an individual can bring to the world and make it a better place.

I waved and hugged my friends and relatives goodbye. I would turn back occassionally to wave again and again as I slowly went further and further away. One thing that is certain is that life is uncertain, and who knows when I will return , or whether I will see these people again... but as I waved goodbye, my mind was once again awash with the pleasant thoughts of the warmth and gratitude I feel towards these people.

Final farewell

Dad would have loved the Formosan Lilies. How beautiful they were, how fragile, yet at the same time so fancy and fragrant. Pure white, with a blush of pink and red. The flower, being the unofficial national flower associated with qualities of purity, grace, vitality and courage that embody the Aboriginal Peoples of Taiwan, is often used to adorn funeral halls. Perhaps these are the very qualities that the family members need to carry on life after death.

The lilies surrounded dad’s portrait. Serene, and magnificent. My mind was against awash with a strange sense of calmness, the same kind of calmness I experienced as dad’s life slipped away in my hands. Dad’s smile felt so warming, and so close to heart. I stood there silently for a moment, and admired the flowers. Some lilies were already open, radiating a pleasant scent throughout the room, while others have yet to blossom. Whatever state the bud is in, one thing is certain: all will one day bloom, take on its natural beauty, but will also eventually wilt and perish. That is the nature of all life.

Aptly named bai3he2 (百合), the literal translation of the Mandarin term for lily is “perpetual union”. For perhaps it is true that death does strangely bring people together. Relatives and friends gathered in the hall well before the official ceremony began at 11 in the morning. Relatives and friends slowly drifted into the small hall. I nodded to them with a faint smile and bowed gently with my hands together before my chest as a gesture of respect and gratitude for their coming.

Many had ventured from hundreds of kilometres away to bid dad farewell. An aunt, the youngest sister of my dad, flew all the way from the States just to attend the final ceremony. Solemn were their faces, moist their eyes and noses from personal memories and mourning of a quiet beloved man who gave much but asked little in return.

Much bowing, prostrating, kowtowing followed, all in accordance with age-old traditions. Not only

my brother and I must show to pay respects to dad and show him filial piety, also the attending relatives and friends must bow before dad and offer him food and flowers. As dad’s sons, our role in the whole ceremony is more elaborate, for we must show deep reverence towards him, and bow before him various times at various intervals. Personally, it seemed more like an overtly and carefully choreographed public display of how filial and virtuous as sons we were, when actually real respect and real gratitude comes from deep inside.

In a private reception with dad, I saw him lying in the coffin. Most of his body were covered with a yellow cloth bearing the markings of Buddhist prayers written in Sanskrit. But I could see the black suit, red tie, and white shirt with pale thin vertical stripes that we had carefully chosen out for him to wear on this final leg of his journey in this world. By his feet, lay four sets of clothing, which as tradition dictates, is meant for each season of the year.

Dad’s eyes were closed, but his mouth was still half open from the moment when he passed away in the hospital, when he was wearing a respirator mask. His eyebrows were thick, as I remember them, yet there were little hairlets that were clinging onto his cheeks, which were perhaps left there in the haste to make dad still cosmetically viewable after almost an entire month in the freezer.

Before seeing him, I thought seeing dad again would trigger me to burst into tears and howl at his side. But seeing dad again I did not feel frightened, neither did at all I feel pain from sadness. Instead, I knelt down next to him, and spoke to him in silence…

I wished him happiness, good health, and most of all, peace forever after. Silently I told him to take good care of himself, and thanked him again, as I have done many times before, for all he has given me, and more. I pressed my fingers against my lips, and placed my fingers on dad’s forehead to ‘kiss’ him goodbye. My fingers felt ice, ice cold, and my touch smudged the thick make up a little. The heavy breathing in that hospital ward, the beeping of dad’s heart as monitored by a machine were distant memories.

In the background, a small orchestra played traditional Taiwanese flutes to the tunes of one of my favourite songs. The lyrics carry the ageless written wisdom of a poet in the Sung Dynast, over a thousand years ago. The words that most suits dad’s final farewell are beautifully captured in the verse:

People have their griefs and joys, their togetherness and separation,
The moon has its dark and clear times, its waxings and wanings.
Situations are never ideal since long ago.
I only hope we two may have long long lives,
So that we may share the moon's beauty even though we are a thousand miles apart.

Though we are now more than merely a thousand miles apart, deep down inside, I know that many parts of dad and me are still intricately intertwined and bound together. In the final letter that I wrote dad, and in the dozens of old pictures that accompanied dad’s coffin into the cremation furnace are countless memories of words and places, emotions and hugs that dad and I shared together. Priceless memories can never be burnt, nor turned into ash.

Into the furnace dad went. Then it dawned upon me… I would never be able to gaze upon dad’s face ever again, at least not in real life… this was the final and ultimate moment of farewell, as the steel forks lifted dad’s coffin into the furnace and the doors slowly shut.

Out of the furnace dad came. An hour later. Ash and bones. Bones, broken and evenly smashed by machines. Bones, some slightly dyed green and orange, remnants of the medicine that were injected into dad’s body during his first and last chemo-therapy. Brother and I picked at the bones, and placed them into the marble urn we had chosen.

The lid was closed and sealed.

Farewell…farewell, dear dad!

"Time to say goodbye"

Slight drizzle, overcast skies.

Light tears, clouded spirits.

Dad's clothes carried his smell. I sat on his bed, as mum and brother gathered around and cleared out his closet. For the past month or so, we dare not disturb his room too much. I only went in in the evenings to turn on the light, the one he used to use to spend hours reading with. For the rest, his belongings, mug, papers, and glasses lie resting peacefully as they were the day he was brought into the hospital.

Brother wiped his tears. Mum sobbed. I remained still, and continued folding the clothes dad would need to take with him, when he finally crosses over to the Other World tomorrow.

"Up till this age, I have never folded dad's clothes before," brother said, sadly. More tears flowed. I remained still, memories of dad's smile and kindness in my heart, the scent of dad's odour drifting up my nose, and the feel of the fabric soft on my fingers.

"Think of the good things about dad," mum said.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
The musical steps of the library you used to climb up and down daily...
the green nature clouded in mist and wafting with the smell of fresh sulphur in the mountains you so loved to loose yourself in...
the restaurants we shared many meals and many precious moments in...
the living room where we sat in, sometimes in silence, other times, chatting, catching up and sharing life stories,
the hospital ward where you so peacefully passed away in my arms, in the company my prayers and butterfly kisses,

Dad... the past few weeks, I have tried to go to the places you went before. I have tried to go see the sights and hear the sounds that were once so familiar to you, and to me. But nowhere, not in the bedroom where you told me bedtime stories and held me in your arms to sleep, not in the offices where you toiled night and day to provide us a decent and carefree living,
nowhere holds the memory of your being and life more freshly than in my heart and soul...

I know I may not have been the perfect son, dad, as I did not go to Cambridge, as you would have liked, and I never had a girlfriend you had hoped for. I know sometimes I made you angry because of my stubbornness and live-and-let-live attitude to life and all that it brings. I know I may not have attached the same importance to pride and material enrichment as you did, and perhaps I have been blunt and rude in saying certain things that a child should never have said.
But even so, even despite all my flaws, throughout my life you have stood by my decisions and choices, and supported me wherever I went.

You gave me the freedom to excel in the subjects I loved most, you gave me the means to travel the world and see peoples and cultures that make me richer than many others. You gave the the freedom to discover the world, and learn from my own mistakes, and you gave me the means to spread my wings and fly, when others were still save and sheltered. Most of all, in your silence and in your tender sternness, you held high hopes for my future, even though I at times had none.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
I hope you can be proud of me, proud of me for what I have done, and for what I have still yet to achieve. As ever, I do not know where the future will take me, and this may be a source of worry for you, as always. But believe me, dad, I will try and I know I will succeed, as always. For I know, behind me, even though you are no longer there, you will be there to support me.

How you have sacrificed yourself, how you have worked so hard to provide for me, I will never realise. And sadly, I will never ever be able to return the favour. I can only hope that with my quiet determination, hard-work and humble virtues, I will one day be able to contribute some good to the world, as you have always hoped for.

Dearest dad... Time to say goodbye.
Your passing left behind scores of memories, beautiful and vivid. Of course, as with everything in life, there were dark periods and solemn memories... but your presence and life in my life, and in the lives of others, is too precious to be clouded by obscure thoughts.When I think back, I cannot but smile and feel my insides warm up in comfort. And I hope your memory will forever continue to live on within me, and be captured by these little words.

As I flipped through the photo albums in your room, I am touched and brought back in time by the countless pictures of you... of you in your vibrant youth, of you in those days when we were living abroard... of you holding my hand, hand in hand, passing through the years of innocence. How young we were then, how happy and free. I hope tomorrow you will take these pictures with you, and forever treasure the people who loved and cared for you dearest of all. Know that, though in your final years we slowly grew apart due to time and distance, in my heart, dreams and memories, your face and your words still stay with me.

Time to say goodbye, dearest dad.
Time to bid farewell, however difficult and painful it may be. Time to wish you a peaceful onward journey, as you go further and further away, and gradually vanish away like dust in the wind.
I have been able to keep my eyes dry till now, I have spoken to you everyday when I offer your food and cigarettes, but I am not sure whether I can hold myself tomorrow. But know, dearest dad, know that should tears flow down my cheeks, should I turn away and sob, I am forever grateful to have known you, to have been cared for by you... and to have been loved so dearly by you, even though you never said it out loud.

Memories of you may fade, as the pain and the love may fade with time, but the fact that I owe my life and successes to you and your sacrifices, hopes and dreams will remain, forever, and ever.

Dearest dad...
May you be peaceful,
May you be free,
May you be happy,
And may you be free from all sorts of suffering,
Forever and ever...

your son,
yours forever,
WeiWei
偉偉

"Time to say goodbye"

When I'm alone
I dream on the horizon
And words fail;
Yes, I know there is no light
In a room
Where the sun is not there
If you are not with me.
At the windows
Show everyone my heart
Which you set alight;
Enclose within me
The light you
Encountered on the street.

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall experience them.

When you are far away
I dream on the horizon
And words fail,
And yes, I know
That you are with me;
You, my moon, are here with me,
My sun, you are here with me.
With me, with me, with me,

Time to say goodbye,
To countries I never
Saw and shared with you,
Now, yes, I shall experience them,
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you
On ships across seas
Which, I know,
No, no, exist no longer;
With you I shall re-experience them.
I'll go with you,
I with you.

2.28

I lightly tapped mum on the shoulder. No response.

I tapped her again, her head rested on the pillow, her face buried under the duvet, back against me. "Mum...?"

She groaned a little, and turned around to look at me. "I feel ill, and I feel so cold!" She looked tired, and unwell. I sat next to her, as she continued to sleep. Crow-feet pressed lightly against the corners of her eyes, the wrinkles on her eyelids show tiredness and old age, the light breathing and breath against my cheeks a source of comfort and warmth. Loneliness, loss, over-exhaustion, worry, stress and death. Mum has experienced it all. And now her body is slowing down, telling her that her years of worries and fears have triggered a turbulent symptoms that will weaken her even more and more as time passes.

I let mum sleep more, and quietly walked downstairs, hoping that she can soon regain that vigour and strength that I so admired and so looked for for protection while growing up.
Now, I can only hope to return the favours by pouring her warm cups of water and making her meals in the hope that her health can be nursed back to what it used to be.

I too woke up this morning feeling really sick. While making breakfast, the food I was cooking made me like throwing up. Nausea, dizziness, and soreness all over. Perhaps the weeks and weeks of exhaustion is taking its toll on my health, and I felt like the cold is reaping in its award.

Originally, I had planned to go and attend the commemoration ceremony of the 228 Incident, but I was too tired and feeling so miserable I rolled back into bed after offering breakfast to my dad. Dad would have wanted to attend the ceremony, which remembers the tens of thousands of Taiwanese civilisans massacred by the invasion of Nationalist Chinese troops, and the beginning of over 40 years of martial law known as the White Terror. It began in 1947, coincidentally the same year my dad was born in. Now, 61 years later, Taiwan is peaceful and free. Now, 61 years later, my dad is also hopefully peaceful and free.

With two days until the funeral on Saturday, most of the arrangements have been made. Throughout the past few weeks, we have been busy looking for a suitable final resting place for my dad, and it seems we found one in the mountains of the North-East Coast, overlooking the sea. Friends and relatives came by our house to pay respects to my dad, and spoke of how kind and gentle a person he was. They praised his calm nature, his love of reading, and emphasised his excellent writing skills. Perhaps this is a heritage that I will hopefully be able to inherit now that my dad is gone.

Traditions

Dad spoke.

But I was not the one he spoke to. Not even when I have been sleeping next to my dad's shrine ever since he passed away. Not even when my hand was the last to touch dad as he was placed into the freezer.

Instead, dad spoke to this Daoist master. A master who has the ability to communicate with spirits and the dead. And he also does fortune-telling too.

Taiwan is a place rich with traditions. This island has throughout its history absorbed peoples and cultures from East and West, and assimilated religions and beliefs from near and far. People have their roots in Confucianism, which makes them learned in idea(l)s such as filial piety and respect for law and order. At the same time, they have a strong influence from the Japanese past and upbringing, and are under the constant bombardment of Western fashion and culture. The result is an unique hybrid of faiths and traditions.

This means, often you have statues of a (Mahayana) Buddha placed next to the Chinese Guanyin (Godess of Mercy), while merely a few feet away sit the local deities for the wind, the earth, fire and water . All this often together under one roof. Buddhist monks mingle with Daoist priests. Local customs of burning paper money mix with chantings of Sutras from ancient India. No combination of rituals and rites seem too surprising, and many submit themselves to these rites and rituals often without knowing exactly why or how. Sometimes it amounts to pure superstitition, at others times pure mysticism and cult-like worship. It is both a fascinating socio-historical insight into life on this island, but at times, also daunting to understand, let alone practice perfectly.

For the past few weeks, I am just beginning to learn the intricacies of all these rituals and traditions, and to be honest, some are simply outright outrageous and nonsensical.
When it comes to the dead, the rites are especially long-winded and complicated, which is part of the reason my dad can still not be cremated, even though it has already been almost a month since he passed away. It is not just a matter of cremating him and placing the ashes in an urn. We have had to find a suitable location to place his urn, which all depends on his birth and death time and date, and in addition we must find a suitable time to do this.

According to the tradition, each person has three spirits, one of which remains in the body of the dead, and the other two fly away and wander the world after dying. These three spirits must be gathered together by an elaborate ceremony of chanting and sorcery, gongs and bells, for them to return home. And the reason why many people have an ancestral plaque bearing the name of the deceased inside their homes is because it is widely believed that the dead, though invisible to normal people, usually will return and continue to live in that plaque. It is this plaque, often wooden, that is worshiped and referred, and before which fresh food and fruits, incense sticks and paper money, together with the favourite things of the deceased, are offered regularly. This is just a thin icing on the rituals that need to be performed.



To make sure the spirit comes home takes time, and a lot of effort. And for the many, many days since dad's death, we have been busy with this. My mum knows of this grand master who apparently has great abilities, and he has been involved in many of the planning and ceremonies. The day before yesterday, he suddenly called and told my mum that my dad spoke to him, and the grand master said that dad is sad that none of us have visited him at the mortuary, where dad's body is lying in a freezer. It is of the utmost importance that we go see dad, the master said.

I did not know whether to laugh or cry. Why did my own dad not communicate with me, but communicated with a master of ceremony and voodoo-- the very kind of people dad detested to the bone while he was still alive? Most ridiculous of all, we were told that we should open the freezer and let dad 'see' us. I was outraged.

It is correct that I have not paid respects to my dad at the mortuary since his death. But apparently waking up every single morning to cook dad breakfast and offer him cigarettes is not quite enough. I must open the freezer and let he see me. Why? Why?

I began to sob at the thought. It baffles me, as it has baffled me several times in the past few weeks, why people are so concerned with the dead when they are dead, but not when they are alive? What use is it to give the dead a proper burial according to all the rites and rituals from generations and generations ago, when you do not show any compassion or love toward the dead when they are still living? How can any amount of chanting or voodoo help the dead toward a peaceful existence in the hereafter, when while alive you let the person down and give him regrets and disappointments? It is to me beyond sense how people can can blindly obey rituals and rites, but never stop to ask themselves whether their intentions and their hearts are pure and clear. A thought stuck to mind from this, and other turbulent encounters with unheard of myths and rituals... when dad passed away, I felt little sadness and shed little tears... why most the living make me so sad and make me shed so many tears?

I bluntly told my mum and brother that I refuse to open that freezer, and that they cannot force me. I want to treasure my own memories of dad, to treasure that peaceful posture at the moment of passing, and I absolutely do not want to have it ruined with view of the stiff and darkened flesh on my dad's cold corpse. Why must I go let a dead corpse see me? Is it not enough that I hold my memories of my very own dad in my heart and mind? Is it not enough that I send metta (loving-kindness) and wellwishes to my very own dad in silence? Can I not mourn dad's loss in my own quiet and calm way? Traditions dictates that I cannot... or at least better not, unless I want to suffer from bad luck and risk experiencing disasters rain upon me.

If so be my life and fate, so be it.

When I got to the mortuary, I went in first. Along a wall of freezers, I found dad's. Number 440. I knelt down before it, and put my hands together. Silently I whispered to dad, firstly apologising for not visiting after he passed away, but I told him, and I think he already knows, he is in my heart. With eyes closed, I knelt there, sent him prayers of good wishes and my hopes of his happiness and newly found freedom. Perhaps he also received the little words and wishes I sent up in the sky lantern the day before. Nothing more do I ask for on my birthday.

My brother softly walked to stand beside me, and I started to turn and walk away, thinking perhaps he had gotten the guard to come open the freezer. But my brother called me, and asked me to come back. He too realised that it is not necessary, and will only accentuate the pain of loss over nothing. We went to the mortuary, as told, and we saw dad. Perhaps not in so many words, but we saw him in our hearts, and felt him through our palms and fingers as we placed them on the door of the freezer. And I think we can come to peace with that. And as can our dad.

This is just a simple example of the kind of superstition that makes my life sour and complicated, and sadly even more so in this difficult time when I have to deal with dad's passing away and be strong physically and emotionally to comfort my family.

And there may be more to come.

21 February

"Dear Dad
Be Peaceful
Be Happy
Be Free"

With those words, my sky lantern lifted up into the dark sky, rising and rising together with tens, hundreds, thousands of other hopes and dreams and wellwishes that rose to the heavens.

Watching the lanterns rise, I was filled with a sense of awe, taken aback by the serene beauty of the scene of a swarm of lights like stars traveling further and further away, taking the words of the people below up to those above who would hear and read them. I hope my dad can also read mine.

The mountains gathered mist, the river slid smoothly below, while the moon shone at its brightest and roundest for the first time after the Lunar New Year... also for the first time after dad's death. A part of me was saddened, and empty.

On this night of my twenty-fourth birthday, I have already lost a dear part of me that can never be recovered. Except those fleeting moments when dad's face and words are briefly recaptured in memories and pictures.

I hope dad can also feel this pain too.

20 February

Mum was discharged from the hospital yesterday, after having spent three days almost constantly in bed with a tube buried inside her left right shoulder. She says she feels alright, and that her digestion is more or less normal. But this morning when I was cooking in the kitchen, she came in and as soon as she smelt a pot of soup, her stomach became upset, and she started to choke from vomit.

After chemo-therapy, the patient normally has an aversion to food. My dad would feel sick at the thought of food, and told my mum not to even mention that word. Luckily, my mum can still eat a little and has not thrown up yet. Mum did say that she feels her heart is pounding, and that her blood pressure level may be really high, as predicted by the doctors. I squeezed fresh grapefruit and mixed it with Yakult, and she drank a two big glassfuls. My auntie, the youngest sister of my mum, has also been staying with us for the last two weeks, and has been preparing lots of delicious and nutricious foods to make her body strong and balanced.

I looked at my mum carefully today, as she lay in bed to rest, and I noticed... noticed the saggy, eyes, and the darkened and wrinkled eye lids. There was a tiredness in those eyes I never saw before, even though she still spoke clearly about everyday things and details of my dad's funeral plans as if she did not undergo any excruciating treatment.

Ward C069

The past two days I have spent at the hospital. Mum was admitted late Sunday evening in preparation for her chemotherapy shots, and I stayed with her every night at the hospital, on a bench next to her bed.

The doctor says the new 'target therapy' raises the chance of success between 15 to 20%. But as with all medicine, there are side effects, including nose bleeds, hormonal imbalance, higher blood pressure levels... and a minimal, but not negligible risk of intestinal rupture and bleeding, which will require immediate surgery. Mum's colon cancer is already at an advanced level, and tumours have started developing around the lymph glands. Two years max, if the medicine does not succeed. Many more years, if the treatment is well received, and if the diet and daily habits are well looked after. Within a time span of less than two weeks, two shocks to my life.

Brother indeed began looking very stern and concerned, and became irritated at the fact that he was never told until two days ago, whereas I knew more or less how bad my mum's situation already is. Accept it, mum has always said. Life consists of birth, aging, illness, and death, as the local saying goes. But when I think about it, some people skip the illness part and go on living a healthy life until the inevitable death. Why both my parents have to undergo such fate... and why now, and together?

The sound of haggard coughing, wheezing, gargling of phloem... the weak, almost inaudible whisper of an old wrinkled lady telling her children her regrets and worries... the beeping of machinery, the stench of old laundry mixed with medicine. Hospitals are not a pleasant place, but a place where the air is stale, and the people stern looking and fragile. Save for the kindness and warmth of those angels in white, whose comforting words and smiles bring in sunlight into the artificially lit ward, there is little to cheer up the mood. I look at mum, eyes closed, sleeping, drugged by the medicine, and notice for the first time how the hairs around her ears have turned white.

Dad spent the last moments of his life in a hospital bed. Dad spent the last few days of his life confined within the confines of the huge hospital complex. The walls may have pictures of mountains, birds, and even photographs of Keukenhof where we once were together as a family, but nothing can replace that freedom of being able to wander the world freely, and free of illness. Thinking of dad, and how he must have wandered those very corridors, and at times sneaked outside for a quick cigarette, I feel comforted, but at the same time saddened. I look at the sad faces of patients and their relatives, I look at the cripple and the vegetated man in a wheelchair. So much pain, so much suffering... who will take care of them?

Her eyes closed, her arms still, and her posture serene and motherly. Sitting next to mum, I am for a moment glad. I can take care of her. While I still can.

Sunshine

Ever since I returned to Taiwan ten days ago, there has not been a day of sunshine. Until this morning.

As usual, I got up around six in the morning, and prepared food and fruits for my dad to 'eat'. It is an ancient tradition that is repeated twice a day, once in the morning, and once in the evening. We do not believe the dead leaves home as soon as he is dead, but usually stays around for sometime, until the spirit of the dead realises that it has to move on to the next realm of existence.

Usually I prepare rice with three dishes, one type of meat, and two kinds of vegetables. For the vegetables, one has to be the Chinese leek (韭菜, 'ku-tsai'), because in Taiwanese the word is a homonymn of the word for 'ever-lasting', As Taiwanese people and culture adore all sorts of symbolism and imageries, the name and lush green leaves of the leek is supposed to symbolically represent the everlasting togetherness of the deceased with the relatives. It happens to be also one of my favourite vegetables.

As I offered the food to dad's shrine, a beam of golden sun ray came through the window, and another, and another, until within moments the whole house was filled with refreshing sun light. The sky looked clearer, brighter, a far, far cry from the dull, gray and depressing days of mist and rain and storms before. When mum woke up, I proposed to take her up to the mountains.

Moments later, I rode the motorbike down the winding road up the Yangming Mountains ( 陽明山). Famed for its dozens of dead volcanoes that give source to various lakes of hot springs, this mountain range forms part of a national park that is merely around ten minutes away from my house. The mountains tower over a thousand meters, and form a tall column of green, sometimes white during the winter months, that leads all the way to the blue, blue Pacific.

We used to go up the mountains every weekend as a family, and take long baths that can clear away all sorts of worries and supposedly prevent and cure all sorts of diseases. This morning, it was just my mum and me.

The smell of sulphur lingered in the morning mist the closer we got close to a valley of hot springs. Down below, I used to clamber on the rocks and buy fresh eggs that would become hardboiled within minutes of putting it in the lake. Yellow vapour spews smoke and dust into the air, and often falls down as refreshing rain, making the area lush with life and plants.

We walked past a few vendors selling fresh mountain vegetables and fruits, the likes of which I have never seen before, let alone can name. The old ladies tending the stalls were so kind and friendly, the kind of genuine friendliness that I can only feel in Taiwan, and that always make me me feel all warm inside. Instantly, two dishes of stir fried wild vegetables were served, to be washed down with hot vegetarian sesame oil soup. For desert, I bought a piping hot sweet potato that was purple in colour, and so sweet and soft in flavour.

One old lady asked for my dad, and was sad to hear his passing. She used to call dad her 'brother', while dad would greet her as 'older sister'. They knew each other well, for my parents would often go up the mountain buy fresh organic vegetables from this lady. She had whitening hair, but a bright smile and soft voice that was calming. "We come and we go," she said, "All we can do is wish him well, and send him loving-kindness." I thought of dad, and how he must have rode the same road as I did, how he must have stood in the same place and chatted to the same old lady as I was doing then...


Throughout the day, more relatives came over and pay respects to dad's shrine at home. As a tradition, people give 'white evelops' with money to the remaining family members. I think it comes from the days when people were really poor, and every little bit of money helps to pay for the funeral arrangements, which can be rather costly (and therefore lucrative) business here. In return, those who visit get a towel (巾), which in Taiwanese has the same sound as 'root' ( 根 / 'gin'). The gift of the towel is supposed to symbolise the cutting off of the 'root of sadness', in the hope that the mourning will soon be over, and that better days will come. Of course, a towel is also always handy to wipe away tears.

Later in the afternoon, we received a phone call. A long awaited phone. From the hospital. After almost a week, there is finally a bed free for my mum to go in and receive her chemotherapy injection treatment. Hastily, her things were packed in a little suitcase with wheels, and we soon we arrived at the ward for cancer patients.

On the bed were linen bearing the same markings as the ones that were on dad's bed not so long ago. He passed away in a building two stones throw away. And now my mum is going in for treatment. She was optimistic, and was not in the slightest way worried or scared. At least, if she was, she was not showing it.

I smiled and joked as we rode the lift to the ward, thinking that I must not be sad or worried for that would make her feel even more so. But deep down inside, I knew the coming few days would be a critical phase of a new infusion treatment, which targets only the cancerous cells, and leaves all other healthy cells intact. So effectively this means there will (hopefully be) less of the usual side-effects of hair loss and tiredness. But the treatment is really expensive, and can lead to higher blood pressure levels, so mum must remain in hospital for a number of days.

I will visit, and bring her fresh food and fruits.

And bring her good wishes and my blessings too.

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.

Jinshan

“When you get on a bus, you have to get off too,” my dad once said metaphorically, as he arrived at the seaside resort of Jinshan (金山). This little town perched on the Pacific Ocean is probably one of his most favourite places. Located on Taiwan’s magnificent North East Coast National Scenic Area, it is a wide valley which faces the blue, blue sea, with its back against lush, green mountains that is often adorned with clouds and mist. Dad loved the local seafood, often caught early in the morning, and freshly prepared to be eaten in the many restaurants along the white sandy beach. He also loved the delicacies of duck and goose, especially the wing bits which he loved to nibble on.

When I was little, I was told, we went to Jinshan on a family outing. Probably not more than three, I was petrified of the water, even though I was safe in a raft, and dad walked within hand’s reach beside me. I cried and cried and wanted to be taken ashore again. It was a terrible experience, watching all these giant waves crash against us, I think I must have feared that my loved ones would be swept away and lost forever. I cried and cried, and made my dad promise that we would never go near the sea again.

I rode the minibus today, and watched the same waves crash against the barren beach this morning. Indeed, a loved one is now lost forever. The ocean was not pacific as I remember, but murky and gray. The waves were violent, tumbling in a white rage, as they battled against the jagged rocks. The wind was piercingly cold, dampness wound together with salt. An island shaped like a tortoise poked its body not far away from shore, almost surreal in the thin layer of haze. Rugged cliffs wound along the shore, revealing a different kind of wild and raw beauty that this little island has to offer.

We headed up a mountain overlooking Jinshan, towards a tower that potentially could serve as the final resting place of dad’s urn and ashes. In recent years, a number of majestic temples have been built in and around scenic areas with good ‘feng-shui’ with the purpose of housing urns containing remains of the deceased. ‘Spirit and Bone Tower’, these buildings are literally called (靈骨塔, lin-gu ta), and they are grand structures normally containing a great hall with statues of various Buddhas and Bodhisattva, and on the different storeys are rows and rows of little safe-like containers where you can purchase a spot and place the remains of the deceased in.

Like in real life, an ‘urn safe’ is hard to come by, and are as hot as real estate. The best positions are often taken, especially those closest to light or the window, or those not too high up or not too low down. You can purchase a safe and you will receive also a Certificate of Ownership, which is (ironically) for life. According to local customs, every person is born at a different time and date, and these details read together with the horoscope determine which position and direction is the most suitable for a restful stay. Certain people, like my dad, must have a place facing the North, while others, like me, will fare better if I were to face West.

So together with my mum and brother, we wandered through the many hallways and corridors of this gigantic building in search of a suitable place for my dad. Again, like in real life, a safe for the urn does not come cheap. You can choose to be squeezed together with many others in an appartment-styled complex, or choose to have a more quiet VIP-mansion treatment with your personalised box with a window view to the sea. The difference is the price tag, which can amount to thousands or tens of thousands of Euros. The funeral business is a propserous, and apparently profitable one, here in Taiwan.

Dad was always a thrifty person, and he never wished for luxury or excesses. We picked a place for him in the standard urn room, which is fairly reasonably priced, and located in a good place suitable for his person. But before deciding anything definitive, I proposed that we ask dad for his opinion.

It may seem crazy and pure mysticism to a foreigner, but there are ways you can communicate with the deceased. Since dad’s death, a temporary shrine has been erected in our living room, and it is before this shrine that we offer fresh fruits and food to dad twice a day. You can ask the deceased simple questions, like whether he has finished his meal before taking the food away, or complicated ones like the ones I plan to ask dad about what he thinks about the temple we visited today. Tradition holds we take two coins and flip them into the air. A head and a tail means yes... two heads means that the deceased is humoured at your question and laughing at you, while two tails is a definite no, and may be interpreted as being angered if it appears too often consecutively. One must wait a few more moments before asking again. Some say this is just about probability, about chances...but I have come across (personally) times when a head and tail does not appear, even after ten or twenty throws. This, people say, may be because the spirits are angry or unhappy about something...it may be because the proper rites have not been followed, or maybe because not everyone in the household is present, or maybe because a drink is missing. So tomorrow after dad has his morning meal, I plan to ask him, and I am curious how he will answer.

Tou-chi

Dad is supposed to come home today. According to tradition, on the first seventh day after death (頭七), the deceased would return home to visit loved ones. During the first seven days, the spirit of the deceased does not realise it is dead yet, and wanders the world living and believing as it it were still alive. Then comes the realisation that the spirit has already moved into another plane of existence hits, and the spirit goes home to take one final look, before finally moving on.

Hence the elaborate ceremony this morning, with a three person-recital of Buddhist sutras, clash of symbols and rhythmic knocking of a woodblock. The purpose is to send prayers of goodwish and wellbeing to dad, so that he will have a speedy and troublefree passage into the next life. Offerings of fresh fruits and food, together with the burning of wads of 'paper money', paper lotuses and scent of incense is done to ensure that dad does not go empty-handed and empty-stomached. And of course, the diety standing at the first gateway of the Underworld needs offerings of fruits and paper money, so that dad can easily go through.

It took almost two hours. Throughout, my brother, two cousin and I stood in front of dad's temporary shrine, hands together before our chests in a prayer position, and now and then knelt and bowed in reverence to dad. In a cold drizzle, we burnt the offerings, and watched the smoke rise and rise into the heavens.

Last night, I slept on the floor in a little room right behind dad's shrine. In the first moments before falling asleep, I meditated and suddenly felt something never felt before. It was as if I felt my body dissolve into nothing, felt my arms and feet and torso and head evaporate into dust and disappear into everything else around me... I have heard of people describing that moment close to nirvana in similar ways, how body and matter simply disappears. How emotions and feelings become so insignificant, as one realises the inter-connectedness and natural way of all things. But then, I remember feeling afraid and foreign at the whole experince. I am not sure how long it lasted, but I knew I was frightened before finally falling asleep, and sleeping into the earlier hours of the morning. The scent of incense burning filled my lungs, and the chanting of nuns echoed in my ears.

With almost two weeks of holidays due to the Lunar New Year festivities, many things are closed here in Taiwan. And today we received news that the cremation can only take place at the beginning of March, almost one whole month after dad's death. Tradition dictates that the day of cremation be carefully chosen, and has to coincide with the date and time of birth, in short the horoscope, together with the date and time of death of the person. The Lunar Calendar (農曆月曆) acts as a guidebook of when to do what, when and how. This is important to ensure that the deceased can rest peacefully, and in doing so, the lives of those still living will not be adversely affected. Also the 'feng-shui' (風水) of the ultimate resting place of the urn is extremely important... each person has to be facing a specific direction (north, south, east, west), and the timing and place of storage must be carefully planned and coordinated too. They say a peaceful resting place has repercussions on the success and properity of the decendants, and so whether dad's urn is put to rest at the right time or place is supposed to have much influence on the future success and happiness of me and my brother.

To be honest, I simply go along with the rituals, and admire it for its ability to continue for thousands of years till this day. That a tradition could survive so long must have its merits and meanings. But then again I think to myself why one should exert oneself to such extremes? If your heart is not pure, if your mind is not still and contains ill thoughts, what is the purpose of pompous processions and ceremonies? What better way is there to pay respects to the deceased than remember him in your heart, and to be grateful to him for all that you have? I watched the paper money and paper lotuses burn in the fire cauldron, as choking smoke rose to pollute the atmosphere.

I accompanied mum to the Household Registration Office in the afternoon. I rode the motorcycle in the pouring rain. Taiwan has never felt so damp and cold in my memory, as I rode the winding streets that coiled along the misty mountains. I love to look up at the mountains, watch the lowlying clouds float by and shroud the mountain tops in a thin, thin veil. Part of this love comes from being able to imagine the pretty, timid face that is half hidden.

Dad used to ride the same motorbike up the mountains and down to the seaside nearby in those two short years from his retirement to his recent passing. He loved the feel of speeding on the motorbike, and the freedom of going and coming as he pleased, even though it were the same roads he had travelled over and over again. Perhaps he loved it as much as I loved riding my bicycle back in the Netherlands. Today, I rode that motorbike, and felt how easy it was, despite the raindrops on my glasses and the piercingly cold wind, to feel liberated.

Within five minutes, dad’s name was taken off of the official records. His ID was taken away, and my mum was issued a new one. Where previously the space after the word ‘Spouse’ was written with my dad’s name, now stands an open and gaping space. Mum's eyes watered and she fell silent. Taipei City government gave us a bag with a condolence card, a free picture frame gift, and a booklet containing all the laws and regulations and essential information about inheritance. How very attentive and thoughtful.

My mum looked at that, and her eyes watered again.

Memories

I went back to the hospital that dad passed away in barely a week ago. This time, it was because of my mum, who has an appointment to undergo the second phase of her chemo therapy. She had to postpone it, because the funeral arrangements will most likely take up the better part of this and next week, and the doctor said he will schedule a time soon for her to go in and receive her injection of toxins necessary to kill those cancerous cells.

Hospitals are never a happy place. All those ill people and sick patients, the stale air, the masks, and coughing... it makes me feel somewhat just being in the hospital. Imagine how dad had to spend many, many hours and days at the hospital, and all alone by himself.

I heard more about dad's final days from my mum. Ironically, tomorrow dad would be going into the hospital for the second part of his treatment. He had so much faith in the doctors, but his body did not. His body failed him, and could not take the poison any longer. He was nauseatic and dizzy after the last chemo therapy session. He went home, and stayed in bed for almost ten days, throwing up and unable to eat or drink. Just the thought of food made dad sick and throw up. It was as if his body rejected the drugs intended to kill the cancerous cells that had spread to his lungs. And in doing so, dad's body could no longer cope and slowly shut down.

His kidneys were already failing, and his liver functions too. And he was getting extreme pains in the chest area, for his lungs had slowly begun to be infected with cancer. But even so, the when he was taken up in hospital, he would beg my mum to take him outside for a cigarette. She did as dad wished, but felt embarrased, as dad always chose to smoke on a terrace right next to a sign which explicitly says that smoking is prohibited. I went to that place, and stood there for a while, imagining dad puffing away at his cigarettes, his arm wired to the infusion tube. In the bushes I found a cigarette butt bearing the markings of his favourite brand.

Next mum took me to a place where dad once stood and waved goodbye to her at night. Whenever she came to visit, dad would tell her to go home and rest, worried that mum might tire herself out. Dad would accompany mum to the main door, and stand there while he waved goodbye. Once, he stood there, but could not hold his urine in, and had to urinate there and then. This happened a couple of times as his illness worsened in those final days. Dad was too embarrassed to tell anyone, too embarrassed to let others clean up after him. But if only he had realised it was only natural and nothing to be ashamed of...

Despite his ailing health, dad remained humble and grateful. Mum recalled conversations they shared while he was in hospital. He thanked her genuinely for her company, and for her support and care. Once, even though he was already so frail and so weak, he even got out of bed and thanked the doctors for their attention and treatment. By his deathbed, in those final moments as life slipped away, I held his hands and told me how thankful I am for his being and his presence.

According to Taiwanese tradition, the deceased would wander the world for seven days and not realise that he has passed on to another plane of existence. And on the seventh day, which is tomorrow, the dead comes back home to revisit family members.

Will dad come back tomorrow?

Dad's room

I sat in dad's room and looked around. Piles of clothes folded on the table, his old duvet, neatly arranged at the bottom of his bed. The pillow casing littered with strands of his hair, hair he was beginning to loose from the chemo. If I were to lie in his bed and close my eyes, the scent of the sheets, and warmth of the blankets would together make it seem as if dad were next to me still... but of course, he is no more.

I took on the task of cleaning out his clothe cupboard. All the shirts, underwear, trousers, suits, ties, socks... each one a little memory, each one a piece of dad's life, and the moments that I shared within them. Some were new, brand new, and still inside their packaging. Dad had a lot of clothes, but most of the time he wore just a few, that became his trademark. This meant that a lot of T-Shirts were little more than rags that if you tore at them, they would simply rip.

Some clothes I had worn before, but dad had taken into his own closet to wear, because he did not think it necessary to buy new clothes for himself. This is the kind of self sacrifice dad made, so that I can live and lead a better and less worrisome life.

Most of the clothes I packed into a bag, ready to donate to charity. But others, I folded and piled away, as momento... Folded and piled away, like the pillowcase containing strands and smell of his hair.

Next were the medicine... dozens and dozens and dozens of packets of medicine for his illnesses, most still unopened and unused. There were needle-heads too, and wound cleansers, would he needed to inject insulin shots and keep dad's sugar levels under control. Mum said that dad lived the last few years of his life constantly under medication, constantly needing to go to the hospital for check-ups and diagnosis. But a lot of times he did not want to take the medicine. It was as if dad had given up... which explains the packets and packets of pills and tablets still unused, still unopened.

Later in the afternoon, dad's one of his three sisters and one of his two brothers came by to pay respects to dad's shrine. They had journey hours, standing all the way on the train journey from the south of the country, braving the holiday crowd all trying to get back home after the long vacation, just for a glimpse of dad.

We sat down in the living room, bowed before dad, and worshipped him with incense sticks, while we remembered dad for all he was, and all he gave.