Family; Chinese New Year Day 1

Family is a 3 syllable word, I don't often utter.  As a child, my family, fell apart.

We moved into Popo's house at the end of 1980.  I spent the next 8 years, waiting very impatiently to grow up, and to get out.

In the summer of 1989, I peered from my window seat, down at the Pacific Ocean, the mountains grandly defining California, and felt a immense sense of comfort.  I thought, finally, finally- Home.

My father was so horrified when I made the decision to marry my blind date and relocate back to Singapore, he actually called me in NYC to chastise me.  I held the phone away from my face.  I thought- You don't know, what it is like, to be ravished.

Today we visited him.  His was the 3rd house before lunch.  I allocated 30  minutes.  My brother has two young children.  We offer each other, back up.

Popo is almost 100.  Her memory is at times fragile.  But today, she displayed her grit and cheekiness.  A cousin that lives far away calls, long distance.  Popo pretended she did not know her.  She kept repeating in an old woman's voice- Who are you, who are you, even as she looked at me with a gleeful, girlish, wink.

Malay is the dialect we speak at Popo's.  Makan sini, nanti, adar- Eat here, wait, there is.

At my husband's, they laugh in Hokkien.

I laugh along.  I am that hot and that jet lagged.

My husband explains that Ah Kor means Older Aunt in the appropriate respectful tone.  We sit at Ah Kor's  table, eat kueh lapis, listen to her play the piano.  I love Ah kor's house; a sensitive expression of tropical living.  Her eldest son tells me, Ah Kor's truest love is music.  My Fil, her younger brother adds, but Mama insisted that we all do medicine.

Family is a 3 syllable word, I don't often utter.  As a child, my family fell apart.

Oh but Chinese New Year at Popo's house!  The hong baos, the food, and the annual new clothes!

Time passed. We grew up.  Popo has great grandchildren and has outlived even a son.

Chans, Yeohs, Chews, Kohs, a Wong, another Wong.  Strangers linked by the precarious ties of marriage, by the firmer ties of blood.

And at the heart of it all, Popo, radiant- still here, still here.  

She's Still Here.

Some Kind of Wonderful

Popo is in hospital.  She fell a day ago.  She's bruised her eye, hurt her elbow.  There's some evidence of a mild stroke.  My cousin B who tirelessly takes care of her, sends me an update- She's in her element, lucid, lively.   

There was a time when Popo said to me- Don't work so hard, don't work so much.  You need to stay at home for your daughter.  You have to take care of your daughter.  She is growing up quickly and the older she gets, the more she will need you.  You have to be home.  Cook for her, talk to her, listen to her.

photo credit- Cousin B

I think Popo is the only person whose words I follow with unquestioning obedience.  Popo said to eat up the liver, and I did.  Popo said, Finish up all your food, make sure your plate is cleaned, otherwise you won't marry a handsome man.  I did, and I did!  Lastly Popo said to not shake your legs when seated at the dining table or all your luck will be shaken away.

Popo has raised single-handedly seven children during a time when women had less opportunities.  I think she was possibly a difficult mother because her marriage was not easy, and then her husband suddenly died.  She also raised single-handedly, a bigger brood of grandchildren, and maybe by the time we all came along, the only energy she had left was, love.  And even though her love was divisive, I know all my cousins and I, share an unconditional love for her.

If and when her words lacked resonance, Popo had a cane.  When she no longer bothered using the cane, she turned to her kitchen, and used the threat of home-made belachan (the deadliest chilli paste) to be applied onto lying lips, cattiness, tell-taling.

Day 2 in London with Summie, and we attempt getting her a dongel, a pair of wellies.  We go to the grocery store and she insists on carrying all the heavier items.  She tells me, now I am here, Mom, so I can help you, let me help you, and off she goes, walking as briskly as she can in the rain, her cardigan sliding off thin shoulders burdened by bags.  She accompanies me to the park, throws her arms around me spontaneously, thanks me over and over again.

When I could not leave her alone at home, nor stay home for her, I simply brought her to work with me.

I'm glad I listened to Popo.  I am luxuriating in my daughter's company.  She is a young woman now, and I suspect, will do just fine without me here.  What makes me feel incredibly rich is that she is choosing to be with me, wanting me near, even as I continually step aside to offer her more space.  I keep wondering, what on earth did I do right, to deserve the gift of this daughter?  Ah.  I remember now.  I did everything as Popo advised.  I did not once, shake my legs while seated at the dining table.