Daddy

Hail Mary, Full of Grace, the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now,
And at the hour of our death. Amen.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” the six-year-old child whispered, clutching tightly on to the rosary. The plastic beads were damp in her sweaty hands, but she refused to stop.

Teacher had said, ask Mother Mary, and Mother Mary will ask Jesus to save your Daddy. And then Daddy will feel no more pain because teacher promised her that Heaven was painless.
So her teacher passed her the rosary beads as a gift two days ago when she came to learn of the news. Little Ching Ling hung onto the life-line, praying the rosary for the past two days during the wake without fail.

Actually, Ching Ling wanted many things. But she said Our Father and Hail Mary and Glory Be over and over again because her poor mind never found the words to say. Saying these prayers every day at school assembly meant that she knew them well. She could only recite them ceaselessly because six-year-olds were unimportant and should not demand things from God, and so she never dared to ask.

But she wanted to ask if He could wake Daddy up. Daddy looked very handsome and peaceful in his suit, but she thought the box was not very comfortable compared to the nice bed at home. Besides, Mummy also looked very lost without him. She seemed tired because she had not slept all night. Ching Ling knew because she had put her ear to the wall and heard Mummy cry the whole night.

She did not like the hard plastic chair she was sitting on, nor the people who moved in and out whispering, “Our condolences…” whatever condolences meant. And there were some people who would walk with Mummy to Daddy in the box, and she did not like the look in their eyes when they looked at him. But some made the sign of the cross at Daddy’s box, and Ching Ling decided then these few uncles or aunties were slightly nicer people.

Ching Ling also did not like the flowers that came. They came mounted on white metal sticks, roughly bunched together. There were lilies, chrysanthemums, daisies and some other kinds that Ching Ling did not know because teacher had not taught her in class. They were all pink, white or yellow. Plus, they came with cards scribbled with words so long Ching Ling could not read. And these sticks of flowers were strewn around the entire area, which scared her because they were like giants towering over her tiny frame as she weaved past them to move around.

No, Ching Ling liked tulips the best. Why didn’t anyone give tulips? Daddy liked tulips too. They had gone Holland last year, and there were many, many tulips in this pretty garden. And Daddy had bought for her yellow tulips that were tinted purple at the bottom. “For my little princess,” he had grinned mischievously, as he passed the bouquet to her.

“Jasmine, our condolences to you…” Ching Ling squirmed as another batch of people moved into the void deck and greeted her mother. There was the shaking of hands, awkward embraces and faltering voices-a flurry of activity that Ching Ling detested because the movements gave her such her headache. She hadn’t been able to sleep well because Daddy had not come to kiss her goodnight or tuck her in. And Mummy had forgotten to do so since she was so busy crying.

“Ching, come here!” She cringed at her name being called-she would rather have been ignored.

“Come and say hello to the aunties and uncles from Mummy’s office.”

They patted her head gently and gazed at her with a look she could not understand, although if she had been older, she would have known that the look was pity. She did not like being looked at by adults. It made her feel as though she had done something wrong.

Was that why Daddy went away?

“The tumour was in the final stages… Oh yes, he died very peacefully… Didn’t suffer any pain at all…”

“Yes, yes we’ll be okay… Thank you for your concern…She’s been very well-behaved, Alex has raised her well…”

Ching Ling swung her legs at the table where her mother made her sit. She was uncomfortable at the murmurings of her mother and her friends, and the heat of the void deck was unbearable. But little things made Mummy angry nowadays and Ching Ling didn’t like it when Mummy scolded her. She would pull her ears and made her stare at the walls of her bedroom. She remembered yesterday, when she had accidentally spilt her cup of water, and Mummy had sent her back to her room. Daddy was different though even when he was very stern- his punishments always ended with a hug and a cone of chocolate ice cream.

When her mother’s back was turned to see some friends or relatives off, Ching Ling slipped away from the table. She wanted to go to the nearby playground where the swings were, where Daddy and Mummy would spend their Sunday afternoons after church with her. She missed the swings-she hadn’t been there for months.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and the playground was rather secluded. She sat on her favourite swing, fashioned out of an old tire and rusty metal chains, and rocked herself gently to a light nap. She was so tired, and Mummy wouldn’t know…

“Ching Ling! Ching!” The worried voice woke her up and she saw Uncle Sam, Daddy’s best friend. Her favourite uncle! She ran towards him, with the rosary flying around her neck as he scooped her little frame into his arms.

“Come on, Ching. Your mother’s worried.” He spoke softly. “And the evening prayers are starting soon. Don’t you want to pray for Daddy?”

She nodded, burying her face in his shoulders as he carried her back to the void deck. He left her there and went back to the house to get her mother who was preparing some food, before the prayers started in twenty minutes time. Ching Ling felt alone.

“Aunty Jo,” she asked Daddy’s younger sister. “Can I go back home to take Zoe? I’ve no friends here.”

Jo, who was moving chairs for the visitors, smiled and nodded wordlessly. Ching Ling did not see the tears on her face when she turned and ran to the lift.

The door was opened when she reached the house. She ran into her room for her favourite teddy bear-Daddy’s Christmas present to her last year, and placed the rosary over its neck. Clutching Zoe tightly, she wandered into the kitchen to look for cookies for Mummy, since Daddy always said chocolate made people feel better.

And what she saw wanted to make her scream, although she didn’t.

Right next to where the cookie jar was, Mummy was clutching onto Uncle Sam, sobbing painfully, her face buried in his chest. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, hugging her tightly, stroking her hair and whispering comfortingly into her right ear.

“It’s ok, Jas. It’s ok.” He soothed. His hands slid to her hips, and Ching Ling’s mothers arms moved automatically to tighten around his neck in response.

Only Daddy can hug Mummy like that!

She turned and fled, and knocked over a standing vase that crashed onto the floor. Her mother must have heard, for she called out her name over and over again.

But Ching Ling had already slammed the door shut and locked herself in her bedroom. She slid against the door onto the floor, and began sobbing.

Her mother and Uncle Sam were knocking at the door furiously, imploring her to come out. But Ching Ling ignored them. She wanted her Daddy back, not them.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee…”

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy…

thy broken nights

twilight in the sky of night

waterfalls in the lids of eyes

butterflies of winter snow

dreams of stars in barren flows

hands of warmth in empty beds

sobbing souls of broken hearts

widows, orphans, vagabonds

margins of the country’s fields

live in the cold of frigid stares

erodes away thy blameless souls

Five Lives

She heaved into the toilet bowl, and the intense discomfort caused tears to prick her eyes. The contents of her dinner swam in front of her eyes, and the foul stench caused the bile to rise up her throat once again. She had drunk too much. Far, far too much, she thought. Images of the vodkas, long island teas and cheap stout attacked her mind. And how the guys in the club had touched her, but she had been willing bait anyway. Her outfit had consisted of a black backless top, jeans that rode down and strappy heels that made her look tall. She had wanted attention, and received more than she had bargained for. The heavy night of dancing, alcohol and cheap friends-she had done it for a reason hadn’t she? It’s over, Lina, Nathaniel had said. And the words of the text message, heartlessly sent, made her want to wretch again. The burn ran from her stomach and pierced her chest, but this time, she defied and swallowed the bile back down.


The bile stained the satin bed sheets, and Jessie knew she would need to have them cleaned
before the next customer. The man on top finally rolled off her, his right arm wiping away the sweat on his brow. He offered her a weary smile as he lifted up the bed sheets and got up from the bad. She forced a smile back. He was one of her best and most regular customers. She waited for him to leave the room for the adjoining bathroom before she pulled the sheets aside and picked up her clothes. Funny how she let him spill his seed into her but didn’t like him to see her completely. Blouse, skirt, belt and black patent pumps-in that order she put them back on. He came back out from the toilet, smiled again and thanked her as he placed the required amount of money on the dressing table next to the bed. His wedding ring reflected the dim light of the table lamp. He reached out to take her hand, and years of practice had trained her not to flinch. “Come and see me out, Jessie.”


Jesse sighed. His company was getting bought over, and soon he would be made redundant. The promises of his university, the dreams of a high-flying career and the draw of deep pockets had crashed along with Wall Street. “Be careful.” Grace had warned him, when he described in flying terms the projects that he was doing and the products his bank was selling. He hated himself now for dismissing the insightfulness of his wife, he had always known that Grace was exceptionally perspective. Wasn’t one of the reasons why he loved her so deeply? And now that she was heavily pregnant, he regretted becoming an investment banker, wondered deeply if he had let her down. His phone rang. “Yup, Mr Lim. I’ll meet you there at 12. Thanks.” Packing up his bag, he proceeded to leave the office to meet a prospective buyer of his BMW.


The BMW nearly crashed into her as she dashed across the road. Natalie cursed at her stupidity for not looking first, but dashing across roads was common practice for her. Being a university student, working part-time and shuttling between two divorced parents meant she was constantly running around to some place or another. And now that her dad had recently remarried, she had to spend more time with him and his new wife to assure him that she was not angry or resentful at him. Then spend even more time with her mum to promise that she would not neglect her. How was it possible to be angry anyway? Theirs was an arranged marriage, loveless, civil and only kept together by the domineering hand of her paternal grandmother. The divorce was a relief for all three of them when her grandmother passed away. She reached the café where she was supposed to meet her mum for lunch-she had sounded really excited and Natalie wondered why. Pushing the glass door open and scanning the place for her mum, she gasped. Her mother blushed as Natalie raised her eyebrows at her interlinked hands with the man sitting next to her. She loved teasing her mother. The stranger held out his free hand and said smilingly, “Hi, I’m Gabriel.”


“Gabrielle! Are you ready?!” Gabrielle winced at her second aunt’s shrill voice and looked at herself in the mirror one last time. She felt foreign in her strapless white embroidered gown, and wondered if all brides looked as nervous and pale as her. Her female relatives began ushering her out of the house, into the car, and to the church. Every so often, Gabrielle stumbled in her four-inch stilettos that her mother had forced her to wear because David was a good six inches taller. She felt nauseous, and wondered if she would trip and fall as she walked along the aisle. Someone, she did not know who, pulled her hastily out of the car. At the front of the altar, she saw David, looking nervous but hopeful. He smiled at her. As the wedding march started to play, Gabrielle started to shiver. She suddenly remembered the words of her teacher back when she was still studying in a Catholic missionary school.

“The choices we make are eternal.”

The Divorcee- revised

Her stilettos clicked against the marble and then concrete as she walked out of the office into the carpark. Her pace did not slow down even though her steps caused water to splash from puddles that were freshly formed on the ground from a light shower that ended only minutes ago.
Her hands fumbled for her car keys in the right pocket of her jacket, before she grabbed them and unlocked her black BMW. It was only when she slammed the car door shut, turned on the air-con, and music from her favourite radio station was blasting out of the hi-fi that she sighed and leaned her head gently onto the head rest.

Evelyn disliked the lawyer’s office. She wondered why Philip had chosen that particular lawyer. Mr Low was severe and unrelenting in probing about her marriage, which Evelyn felt was strange. Wasn’t divorce one of those issues in life that was always approached hesitantly and carefully, like how someone always hesitates before asking a terminally ill patient if he was feeling okay?

She had assumed it would be like those drama serials, where the gorgeous female lead sashays into the lawyer’s office and signs the divorce paper with a flourish. And the philandering husband gets his comeuppance. She laughed at her own naivete.

Yet divorce was more than a signature. Every trip to the lawyer’s office made her feel like speeding down to Clarke Quay and spend the rest of the day getting wasted. But unfortunately she was wasting away at something else, called the paperwork and paraphernalia of divorce. The endless visits to the lawyer and griming over alimony settlements. Even worse were the stacks of boxes swimming around her house and over her head as he prepared to move out and away from her. She could still hear the ringing of the keyboard in Mr Khoo's office as he typed out documents, talking but never speaking to her, pressing her for information about the marriage (or the lack of it). Perhaps the austerity of the whole affair had been a little too startling and foreign; she had assumed it could end with one signature.

She turned out of the car park and began her quick drive towards the nearby Republic Tower. While alcohol was tempting, she had a client to meet in thirty minutes. A divorced woman was diminished worth in an unkind society-she had to make up for that with an outstanding stockbroker portfolio.

As she drove along Raffles Place, she remembered that it was here where she met him to initiate the divorce. She couldn’t do it at home, purely because she could never find him there. But he was always at work, and it made sense to look for him here.

"If you think you can just walk out of this, literally or not, and leave all the mess and the shit for me to clean up after you, you're going to be really sorry."She squared her shoulders."I didn't live till now just so I could get walked all over by assholes like you. And put up with your lies and smirks and stupid ways. Or come home to a jerk with foreign perfume and lipstick all over his shirt for me to breathe in."

Perhaps she hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but the years of frustration pinched every word that fell from her lips.

"So I'm saying that if you want to move on, then we make this quick and fast and it'll be all over. You don't walk away as and when you like, you don't avoid me and think that everything will pick up all by itself. A messed up marriage still needs cleaning up after."

And that was how she had initiated the divorce, and it had been so sudden, like she had delivered the blow with a sledgehammer, even as the "institution" as they liked to call it, had fallen apart over the five years that they were tied together by that damned certificate.But she was glad that she hadn't gone all histrionic and emotional on him.

She liked the way she stated her decision the way a very tired doctor told a patient's family that that there was absolutely no more hope at the end of an exceedingly gruelling operation.And contrary to popular opinion, the sky didn't fall and the world didn't end. She perfected the manner in which she delivered the divorce news to her friends and colleagues. She learnt how to craft her voice into a lilt of mild disappointment and sadness, and displayed a little bit of frailty on her features. This usually meant pauses of uncomfortable silence at the lunch table, but someone else would always cleverly orchestrate a change in subject matter and the lively mindless chatter would gain momentum again, everyone forgetting, or perhaps pretending that the awkward subject of her divorce had never been broached in the first place.

“It’s okay.” She spoke softly, to comfort herself. She had it all; a nice apartment, a great job she loved, friends who would pub with her till late and confidants who could see through her and comfort her. So she had no husband. Big deal.No, she had lost that one to another woman."I'll be leaving you this place, so it'll make settlements a lot easier," he said, as he was tugging the suitcase along the hallway." Where will you live then?" she asked absent-mindedly. Communications between them had broken down to lines of polite chatter.He shrugged." I and Su.. I mean, I've found a place to stay in, for, you know, a short while." But he had already given himself away.She shook her head as she recounted that particular memory. It was no wonder that Philip had let go of the house so easily; he had already established another home, so whatever here never really mattered in the first place.
The car’s speed slowed as it was nearing lunch time and congestion was beginning to form. She cruised along the main road to turn out of an exit for the car park. She had arranged to meet her client at Republic Tower’s cafe.
“Mummy! Daddy! Look!” Evelyn heard as she wound down the window while approaching the car park from the hectic road. She turned her head to glance in curiosity for young children were rarely found in Raffles Place on a Tuesday afternoon.
Suddenly, she realised that she had done something terribly wrong and gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles. Evelyn had glanced at the kid for too long and had made the wrong turn. She would pay for it now.
There was an incoming truck, which she swerved to avoid and slammed into the side of her car. Wincing in pain, she swerved again to the left to avoid the motorcycle that was heading straight in her direction. There were honking sounds everywhere as furious drivers wondered what on earth was this car doing travelling against the traffic! Evelyn panicked, and she knew that it was hopeless. There were far too many vehicles. “Too many...”, she thought helplessly as her entire vision swung sideways with the motion of her vehicle.
She had swerved too much this time. The car crashed into a large tree that was off the road and the force created a colossal dent in the front of her car as it came to a stop that broke the glass window shield into shards coloured by the black smoke spewing from the damaged engine.
Evelyn was not spared. She felt her entire body thrust forward, restrained by the seatbelt that could not stop her head from smashing onto the steering wheel.
Evelyn thought maybe her skull cracked, for her head was throbbing so intensely she didn’t bother to fight the unconsciousness that was creeping over her. There were voices floating around her-she guessed the accident must have caused quite a commotion.
But behind her fluttering eyelids, all she saw was the kid of five seconds ago, laughing and shouting for his parents. There was her ex-husband, walking leisurely along the pavement, holding the hands of another woman, smiling fondly at his son. He must have been three years old, and she had never known.
“Mummy! Daddy!”
Evelyn cringed at the voice playing over and over in her head. “Get out!” she screamed silently, and begged for sleep to take her away. Take her away from the old house of unhappy memories, from Mr Khoo’s office, from the busybodies who had gathered around her car, from the kid with the mocking laughter ...

Who am I

Who am I?
I am the steady hands steering my ship to where I know I need to go,
Yet, I am a million wandering souls.

Mitch Albom was one of the best sports journalists around and working more than twelve hour shifts when he received news that Morrie Schwartz, the dearest professor he met in university years ago, was dying. The verse above describe what he felt- aware of his ambitions, yet unsure of his real purpose in life when he received the news.

In his best-seller, Tuesdays with Morrie, Mitch recounts the time spent with Morrie, and how he embarks on a journey of self-discovery. He re-discovers his role as a student, patiently listening to Morrie’s lessons on life. He finds the courage to re-assume the role of a brother to an estranged sibling. He re-learns how to be a child again, with the child-like capacity to love freely.

And yet, at the end of the book, when Morrie passes away, we sense that Mitch has not really discovered who he is. However, he has regained a sense of direction that he did not possess before Morrie’s illness.

I was reminded of Mitch Albom’s story during the mid-term retreat, especially because as an SMU student, I find myself in similar circumstances. Like Mitch, we work more than half our days away. Some of us know where we want to go, and some of us are unsure of ourselves. Or maybe we think we know what we should do, without knowing that we are still confused. And this happens to us all, especially when we forget God’s place in our lives.

During the retreat, it would be a stretch to say I found myself and God. The sessions, such as the Enneagram, helped me learn more about myself and God. When Jarvis, an external speaker, touched on the topic “Who is God?”, I reflected on my relationship with God. Who do I see Him as? What are the spiritual anchors that God has given me to tide me through trying times? Jarvis himself had wonderful experiences with God, which made me search myself for the times God had been there, but I had been too careless to notice.

As a young Catholic, my identity with the faith can get pretty shaky, especially when I realised that I did not have spiritual anchors like my friends. I was lost, unsure and questioning my identity as a Christian.

This brings me back to my analogy of Mitch’s story. Mitch found a saving grace in his life-Morrie. Morrie was someone that Mitch relied on for help and advice. Unlike him, I did not have a Morrie, someone who would teach me how to live my life.

But this isn’t true, because I do have a Morrie; in fact Morrie exists for every one of us. He is God. He can teach us who we are, and he comes into our lives at the right times and places. I was not a Christian once, but now I am, because, I guess, He simply knows when to come.

In the quiet time that I spent with Jesus during the retreat, I can’t say that I managed to find myself. Perhaps we see ourselves acting as different roles; a friend, a daughter, or a student. But now I do go around with this awareness of self-discovery, and for the search of His calling.

a place to rest my head

In the kingdom of Heaven, we need not want. But here on earth, royalty is currency because we want it all.

and look at her go, that silly senseless girl, trying very hard to smile and pick herself up and dust herself off after falling. and you're her fall, didn't you know? the reason why she is harsh enough not to cry, even in isolation, yet she is so pathetically weak that all she can think about is you.

and please save the apologies, because she honestly, really, doesn't blame you. this is her, tough and neurotic and sarcastic, safe in her shell till she can open her doors again. and she'll be fine, falling again and again, but still, rising up again.

till then, she'll keep herself sane with your smile, your hands and your words. and she crosses dangerous roads alone over and over again, till she can find a place to rest her head.

fair

i could use some of that long island tea he tried to force on me that day. welcome to life, babe, even though i am tired, and angry, and betrayed, and trying very hard to be magnanimous. the nights sitting in front of the flickering screen, trying to find the right words to say for you. the visions and breathless dreaming, the captivating sound of applause.

and all that fails me now. the amibitions i had, the smiles of an expectant child.

because.

now all i know are the tears on my pillow, that hesitant phone call, the fake smile that i will begin to use on a regular basis from today. the forced laughter for the ears and eyes of uncaring personnel.

and i hope my unshed tears burn into your soul, for the regret that i will always have. and until i learn how to smile like a real person again, please put up with me.

this mannequin, who has learnt how to lie and act and pretend, and who will need some time to unlearn it all.

in the meantime, just put me in the audience, away from the centrestage i yearn to belong. for the winners need their applause, don't they?

i, you, her

hi,

i'm a car crash heart
i'm good at putting new addresses on the same old loneliness
i'll wire myslef up to my headphones
though i still hear you clearly over the muffled music
i think pete wentz is modern poetry
the new melancholy of the 21st century
of cutting edge emotion your parents will disapprove
i could write songs all about you my dear
ha, and you wouldn't even know
i'm the reason why smiles look ugly
and smirks become a permanent feature
i could make my skin hard enough to carve your name on
cause' hey
engravings are so much cooler than tattoos

but till then

i'll make do with a tattoo

hands

she walks beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around the laptop that she clutches to her chest, more to keep herself secure than to hold onto the device. in silence, they walk together, and it's supposed to be comfortable.

supposed to be, she reminds herself, supposed to be like this because we're great friends, and we're used to how this is.

because even if he holds my hands, or touches me lightly on the back, the butterflies i get are all the wrong reactions. when we talk, it's how best friends behave, with the casual but concerned stance, when all i want to do is to reach out and hug him.

because this is how i am, and how he is. it can't be anything more.and i hate it when he tests my waters, seeing how far he can push me.

hate how i have promised myself to be always there for him. even when he doesn't know.

hate how many other boys have flown by, because of him.

hate how many times i've stood on the sidewalk as i smile at each girlfriend he has, knowing from the lips of others that hey,didn't you know, he's got someone new.

suddenly, his hands reach out to her shoulders, and he jokes how tense she seems to be. she smiles and relaxes, returning the friendly gesture. she appreciates this company in the midst of a hectic schedule. especially his company.

she knows this will last her for the whole week.

she also knows that this means nothing, but it will keep her. even though she knows... she knows.

vortex

and she walks silently next to him, arms wrapped tightly around her laptop, more to comfort herself than to hold onto the device.