What's wrong? I asked. It's Daddy? I just spoke with him...
The rest of the afternoon passed by in a blur. I needed to find a flight ASAP back to Singapore. I had to re-organise for Bruno to not come back just yet. With Summie's help, we packed, unpacked, packed again. We changed rooms at Citadines, taking with us, a standing lamp.
At the same time, in Singapore, there were more pressing matters my cousins and brother, in their sorrow, had to decide on. Certification of death, an obituary, moving Popo from her wheelchair to laying her on her bed before rigor mortis sets in. Venue of the wake, cremation service, transport, the filing of a police report, flowers, re-arranging of the furniture in her living room, and honoring her wish for her ashes to be mixed with her husband's, and then scattered at sea.
I stayed awake the whole 13 hours back. I stepped off the plane, into Jon's arms, and went straight to Popo's house. My brother hugged me forever. My cousin B hugged me for as long.
The next morning, I got help with braiding my hair, before returning to Popo's house.
Every morning before school, all through the growing up years, Popo's fingers sifted through my hair, french braid on some days, ballet bun on others. Her voice gentling- Your hair is too thick! Stubborn girl!
Grief slices and silences, rendering one mute. Popo? How do you say, goodbye?
On Friday night I watched throngs of people enter and leave her house.
My cousins G and M led a simple service. My mom, cousin I, and niece S delivered eulogies. Somewhere in the middle of singing Jesus Loves Me This I know, I turned around and saw the bent head of my father and his wife, hovering close.
If Friday night felt like a celebration,
Saturday was merciless and mournful.
We waited in an orderly fashion for each our turn, before Popo's coffin was sealed, and then followed her as the hearse drove to the end of Cheviot Hill.
At Mandai, cousin G led us again in prayer and song. By this time, grief became like quicksand, sucking and sinking.
Still to come, a boat ride, out on choppy waters!
Oh, Popo, how do you say, Goodbye?
The end of her journey, the end of one journey.
Another plane ride. Now I am back in London, admiring her.
Bruno is also home.
Popo? I am sad. But I'm going to be alright. You rest easy now; sleep, sleep tight.
Madame Tham Fong Kwan, October 21 1916- March 24 2015.
* photo credit- Audra Huang, Simon Wong, the Singapore Women's Weekly
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