The Snapping of the Silver Thread: An Eulogy
Today marks the fourth day since you breathed your last.
Growing up, I remember stories my mum would tell me when I stayed at Granddad's place: of how you and First Aunt would play hide and seek in the large double semi-D mansion. According to the tales, I would hide behind a door and being the dirty kid I am, I often ended up passing motions as I squatted there, waiting for you to find me. You would realise that I had been gone a while, followed the smell and eventually found me.
Whenever I took medication, I could never stop crying - not even Granddad (fYI, my Granddad is probably scary enough to silence a parrot.) You wouldn't scold, but just take me for a walk around the house until I calmed down. Then the next dose of medication would pop into my mouth and I would go off wailing again, until I rounded the house for another time. That was how patient you were with me, and somehow I guess that ingrained in my mind that the house would always be part of my heritage, my home.
Back when I stayed over in my teens and youth for guitar lessons and just to chill, you would always scold me "Sik bao la? Kkam fai geh (Eaten already? Why so fast?)". Back then I could eat my meals in 5 minutes flat, but I would always be a little pai seh to tell you that because I did not want to get scolded. In the end, I would slow down my meals to 10 minutes (which was still fast on your timewatch nevertheless). I would always remember that in my Form 6 years, you would always spare me a little pocket money to survive in school, all through my first two years of school. Now, every time I eat too fast or choke, I remember that I will not have you around to chide me.
You were always mistress of the home - mum would tell me that although Granddad was the one who usually verbally made the decisions, he had never not respected you when you raised your opinion. Even in the twilight years, you remained the one who firmly controlled your choices - pleas to move in with my aunts fell to the side, as it was clear you would not leave your house where your children were raised and grandchildren enjoyed the warmth of your care. Even in the last days, you still gave orders around the house, getting your children to help you as they did in their childhood, back in the days when they would mess around under your instructions to bake and cook in the kitchen.
Despite all that, you were always a force of strength, a sun to our parents. My mum's words sum it up - we will miss the clothes she sewed for their school days, the Chinese New Year curtains and dress they could look forward, the special cakes for birthdays that they would forever miss (and we would never taste), the dishes that you bring to the table, the Mandarin they were taught, and the encouragement to pursue their passions no matter what happens. To this day, I have never found anyone who cooks fried rice with Chinese sausages like you do.
However, in the last year it was clear that even the iron mistress was in her last lap. The strong woman you were was seen to stoop over more and more - bending ever slowly to an inevitable fate. Your eyesight started to dim, as the light that stood before you started to shimmer and fade away. Walks around the house started to slow, reduce to a short hobble and totally end. It was evident that though you were the silver thread who knitted the home together, that thread had begun to fray and snap.
Even then in your darkest times, you found refuge in a Creator greater than the cruel masters of fate and time. Though you bent to fate, you did not let it crush you into despair, or lash out in anger. When I saw you last week, you did not strike me as a person who was about to face death's door, despite all signs pointing that you were being ushered to its threshold. Instead, there was a clear peace and serenity that you exhibited throughout life, even as the children and grandchildren were worried sick as you could no longer consume food well. It was as if you were facing down Death, and saying that it may take your body, but it will never change who you are and do.
And so you did. You exhaled your last breath, and went in peace. There was no gasps of pain, or tears of sorrow. You saw death as it was - a gateway to the next world, where Granddad and Aunt Joan are waiting. There, the silver thread that once sewed together clothings of warmth and curtains of strength for her family is laid to rest, until the day when she will one day be reborn immortal, to present her work before the King of Kings.
Rest in peace, dearest Grandmother. We miss you, but we know that we will meet you again one day.
[In Memory of Ho Muay Sou, my maternal grandmother]
Growing up, I remember stories my mum would tell me when I stayed at Granddad's place: of how you and First Aunt would play hide and seek in the large double semi-D mansion. According to the tales, I would hide behind a door and being the dirty kid I am, I often ended up passing motions as I squatted there, waiting for you to find me. You would realise that I had been gone a while, followed the smell and eventually found me.
Whenever I took medication, I could never stop crying - not even Granddad (fYI, my Granddad is probably scary enough to silence a parrot.) You wouldn't scold, but just take me for a walk around the house until I calmed down. Then the next dose of medication would pop into my mouth and I would go off wailing again, until I rounded the house for another time. That was how patient you were with me, and somehow I guess that ingrained in my mind that the house would always be part of my heritage, my home.
Back when I stayed over in my teens and youth for guitar lessons and just to chill, you would always scold me "Sik bao la? Kkam fai geh (Eaten already? Why so fast?)". Back then I could eat my meals in 5 minutes flat, but I would always be a little pai seh to tell you that because I did not want to get scolded. In the end, I would slow down my meals to 10 minutes (which was still fast on your timewatch nevertheless). I would always remember that in my Form 6 years, you would always spare me a little pocket money to survive in school, all through my first two years of school. Now, every time I eat too fast or choke, I remember that I will not have you around to chide me.
You were always mistress of the home - mum would tell me that although Granddad was the one who usually verbally made the decisions, he had never not respected you when you raised your opinion. Even in the twilight years, you remained the one who firmly controlled your choices - pleas to move in with my aunts fell to the side, as it was clear you would not leave your house where your children were raised and grandchildren enjoyed the warmth of your care. Even in the last days, you still gave orders around the house, getting your children to help you as they did in their childhood, back in the days when they would mess around under your instructions to bake and cook in the kitchen.
Despite all that, you were always a force of strength, a sun to our parents. My mum's words sum it up - we will miss the clothes she sewed for their school days, the Chinese New Year curtains and dress they could look forward, the special cakes for birthdays that they would forever miss (and we would never taste), the dishes that you bring to the table, the Mandarin they were taught, and the encouragement to pursue their passions no matter what happens. To this day, I have never found anyone who cooks fried rice with Chinese sausages like you do.
However, in the last year it was clear that even the iron mistress was in her last lap. The strong woman you were was seen to stoop over more and more - bending ever slowly to an inevitable fate. Your eyesight started to dim, as the light that stood before you started to shimmer and fade away. Walks around the house started to slow, reduce to a short hobble and totally end. It was evident that though you were the silver thread who knitted the home together, that thread had begun to fray and snap.
Even then in your darkest times, you found refuge in a Creator greater than the cruel masters of fate and time. Though you bent to fate, you did not let it crush you into despair, or lash out in anger. When I saw you last week, you did not strike me as a person who was about to face death's door, despite all signs pointing that you were being ushered to its threshold. Instead, there was a clear peace and serenity that you exhibited throughout life, even as the children and grandchildren were worried sick as you could no longer consume food well. It was as if you were facing down Death, and saying that it may take your body, but it will never change who you are and do.
And so you did. You exhaled your last breath, and went in peace. There was no gasps of pain, or tears of sorrow. You saw death as it was - a gateway to the next world, where Granddad and Aunt Joan are waiting. There, the silver thread that once sewed together clothings of warmth and curtains of strength for her family is laid to rest, until the day when she will one day be reborn immortal, to present her work before the King of Kings.
Rest in peace, dearest Grandmother. We miss you, but we know that we will meet you again one day.
[In Memory of Ho Muay Sou, my maternal grandmother]