Pen of Passion

~Part I

My grandmother came to live with us when I was six years old. My family was pretty excited about Grandma moving in. No one was more thrilled than my sister. She was my grandmother’s favorite; most of her fancy clothes were given to her by Grandma.

I too was eager to meet her. I had met Grandma several times in the past, but those encounters involved merely the usual hugging and pinching on the cheek – the type of loving tenderness shown by the typical grandmother. I had never actually had a chance to get to know my grandmother. What does she like and dislike? What was she like when she was young? There were so many questions I wished I could ask her.

I had heard several accounts regarding my grandmother’s past. My grandmother was born into an aristocratic family; people courteously referred to her as “Milady”. Grandma was the most beautiful lady in the region. She actually drew crowds of curious spectators, every time she ventured out onto the street. When she celebrated her 16^th birthday, her father threw a huge birthday bash for her. The lavish event made a huge splash at the time; some of my older relatives could still recall the extravagance of the occasion.

Sadly, the family’s fortune would steadily decline soon after. Setbacks and huge business losses cut the family’s fortune in half. Facing serious financial difficulties, her father received numerous offers of assistance from wealthy suitors of his daughter — in exchange for Grandma’s hand in marriage. But he turned them all down. My great grandfather really loved his daughter; he would rather lose all of his possessions than to force his daughter to marry someone she didn’t like.

When Grandma first moved in with us, she was suffering from a serious depression. My grandfather had died only weeks before; she still hadn’t fully recovered from his death. Wear and tear was visible in her eyes. She was fighting an internal battle – one that had isolated her from the outside world. Grandma would spend the next several months not venturing out of her room. She expended most of her day seating by the rear window almost statue-like, looking down on the street below. Everything around her appeared to have come to a standstill. I really regretted not having a camera to capture such a moment. It is something I would never forget.

Two months after Grandma moved in with us, she became gravely ill. My grandmother experienced non-stop coughing. Despite being properly cared for, her coughing only seemed to be getting worst. During Grandma’s illness, my mother spent countless days and nights at her bedside tending to her every need. I have always admired my mother for her selfless dedication to family, but the great devotion she showed for Grandma was truly beyond descriptions. It was a devotion of the purest form.

~~~~~

~Part II

Grandma’s health continued to deteriorate. I was awakened, one night, by the loudest round of coughing I have ever heard. An ominous feeling consumed my mind. I sprinted as quickly as I could to Grandma’s room. What I saw was simply heart-breaking. My grandmother was lying frailly on her bed, with the mattress and pillow soaked with blood. My mother was sitting nearby, helpless and overwhelmed by emotions. Shortly after, an ambulance came and transported Grandma to the hospital.

My grandmother was released from the hospital a week later. Considering the gravity of her condition before the hospitalization, my grandmother’s recovery was nothing less than a miracle; one doctor even jokingly suggested that she might have been pulled out from the gate of death by her guardian angel.

Not only her health seemed to be improving, Grandma appeared to have regained the belief in life that had disappeared from her following Grandpa’s death; she was as energetic as ever. The wall that had been separating my grandmother and the rest of the family quickly collapsed. Grandma would become very engaged in our family’s activities. She also spent a lot of time traveling the country and visiting old friends.

As my 7^th birthday was quickly approaching, Grandma really went out of her way to make sure my birthday celebration one to be remembered. She spent days planning for my birthday party. The decorations were spectacular, and the food was just incomparable. She even personally crafted a spectacular birthday cake to be presented to me on my birthday. Words alone cannot do justice in describing what a marvelous cake it was. Everyone was so reluctant to consume the cake; it was a true masterpiece. I was so touched by all she had gone through to make my 7^th birthday as perfect as it was. Grandma was a wonderful human being.

My grandmother died one year after she came to live with us. She left the world in the most peaceful way possible. She passed away in her sleep – exempt from all the pain and agony of death.

A butterfly came into my house about a week ago. She has been lingering inside the house for a whole week now. Coincidentally, this week marks the 20^th anniversary of my grandmother’s death. I am not a believer in the metamorphosis of spirits, but the butterfly might just be another reminder that life is precious. Live it to the fullest.

~Simon N. 2008

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~vintage 12/2007

During the course of our lives, we make a lot of friends and establish many enduring relationships. No friendships, however, are as valuable and abiding as the ones started in childhood. There is something so pure and innocent about such friendships — they were established without preconditions and prospects of mutual benefits. Over the years, I have managed to retain most of my childhood friendships. Despite the fact that my bosom buddies are now scattered all over the world, I still keep very close contacts with them through letters and other mediums.

My closest childhood friend lived in Paris. I used to have a huge crush on her when we were little. Being such a terrific writer, she insisted that we correspond through letters — we did just that for nearly 7 years. Life in Paris was the most popular theme discussed in our letters. Her beautiful descriptions of the city with its magnificent architecture, scenic landscape, and of course the unbelievable nightlife were amazing. The vividly descriptive photos she sent to me were truly mind-blowing. I was so enchanted by what I saw from the photos that I promised her I would visit Paris when I have a chance, to go through the experience first hand.

We lost contact about three years ago. Inexplicably, she stopped sending me any more letters. In fact, my letters to her were returned to my address. At first, I thought it was a postal problem. After not hearing anything from her for over a year, I realized there might be a bigger problem. Through a friend, I was able to obtain her telephone number. Unfortunately, the number was no longer valid – I was still unable to contact her.

The following summer, I decided to travel to Paris to resolve the one mystery that had been confounding me. I was able to locate her residence using the address on the letters. Unfortunately, neither she nor her family was still living at the aforementioned address. The place was now being used as a boarding house for underprivileged students as well as undocumented immigrants from Africa and Eastern Europe.

I tried to ask the landlady if she knows the whereabouts of the residence’s former occupants. Although the lady was very nice and quite accommodating, she didn’t seem to understand my scrappy French very well – she thought I was some American tourist hoping to rent a room for the night. When I explained that I was not there for lodging, her attitude towards me completely changed. In fact, she chased me out of the building with a broom.

For the next several days, I wandered every corner of Paris searching for my lost childhood friend. Paris was every bit as wonderful as she described. Walking pass the famed Eiffel Tower at night was a remarkable experience. Regrettably, I was in no mood to enjoy it. During my return flight, my mind was full of unresolved questions. I guess she’s the only one who knows the answers to them.

For those who are blessed with many “genuine” friends, do not forget to cherish their friendship. For those who aren’t so blessed, you can always count on me as a friend. Until next time…..so long, friends.

~Simon N. 2007

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~vintage 12/07

Many years ago, I had an opportunity to visit to a leprosy camp in Southeast Asia. My friends and I were led into a visitor booth where we could observe leprosy patients through a glass window. Upon observing the patients, I was absolutely horrified at what I was seeing. I had seen many pictures of leprosy patients before the visit, but none of them could have prepared me for the hideous sight I was witnessing.

Many of the patients had had their entire arms and legs completely “eaten” by the malicious disease. The closest analogy that I could think of would be a burned victim, having his limps amputated by fire. But leprosy is even more sinister, it consumes its victims at a slow and painful pace and thus prolongs the indescribable suffering. To make matter worst, I could actually see the “eating” process happening live in front of my eyes. I felt a sudden urge to vomit. All I wanted to do at that moment was to leave the booth as quickly as possible — so I could be away from the horrific scene.

Just as I was about to leave the booth, I saw something I would never forget. Emerging among the leprosy patients were three young nuns, around 19-22 years of age, wearing all-white attires. They were the patients’ caretakers. They fed them, answered their questions, and cleansed their wounds. The nuns performed their jobs with pure joys, having neither afraid of the nastiness of the wounds nor the fact that leprosy is highly infectious. I could see in their eyes genuine affection and devotion. I could feel the tender and warmth, radiated from the devoting way the nuns conducting their work. They treated the lepers not as their patients, but as friends in need of loving and care.

I was completely stunned and ashamed. Here I was, standing 20-25 ft from the patients and protected by a cement wall, and yet was afraid to even bare my eyes upon these unfortunate beings. The nuns, on the other hand, stood side by side with these patients everyday but were unafraid. I later learned from the camp’s director that most of the people working at the camp volunteered to come to work here. They knew exactly what type of the conditions they would face, but they came anyway. They are the true heroes of our world.

I used to consider myself a philanthropist. Every so often, I would visit an orphanage or a health facility in a remote area. I always bragged to my friends what a great patron I was to the poor, recounting how many times I donated to charities. But what I witnessed on that day shows how insignificant I am.

There are many people today who are doing similar work as the nuns in my story. There are doctors who gave up fame, wealth, and family to serve the poor and needy in dangerous remote regions — where they could be killed at any moment. Although we cannot join them in the quest to make the world a better place, we can always support them in spirit and salute them for their charitable work.

~Simon N.

When I was young, my family often spent the summer in the countryside. We visited the same town so frequent that we were more like parts of the community than casual guests. During my stay there, I came to rebuke many of the myths and stereotypes that city people often have with regards to country folks.

One of the most blatantly false stereotypes about country people is that they aren’t too smart. While it’s true that many of them do not have a formal education, they are a lot wiser and much more pragmatic about life than most city people I know. In fact, I learned a lot more from just listening to the lively conversations, taking place every afternoon at the local eatery, than a whole year of secondary education.

These conversations covered a broad range of topics from politics to the fall harvest. Not all of them were animated, but I always came away with things I didn’t know before. I also befriended many of the children there. I was especially close to a boy named Jimmy*. Even to this day, I’m still not sure how we became such close friends.

We were sharply different people. He was a free spirit who liked to do things I wouldn’t even dare say. I was a quiet and stubborn person, who was often trapped adhering to conventions. Maybe because our personalities so sharply contrasted that we found redeeming qualities in each other.

During the day, Jimmy and I (together with other kids from the town) played hide and seek in the sunflower field. At nighttime, the two of us would climb up to the top of the hill to watch the enchanting stars. Although it has been a very long time, many of our adventures are still fresh in my mind like they were yesterday.

Not only we shared many adventures together, we often divulged to each other our dreams and aspirations. Jimmy learned about my struggles to live up to my parents’ lofty goals and expectations. I learned how he had always wanted to leave this monotonous town; he dreamed of an exciting city life and aspired to become a pilot. It was strange how I was the one who felt emotional listening to what he had to say and not the other way around; and I supposed to be the more stoic of the two.

When I broke the news that my family was about to move to another region and thus will no longer return to the town, Jimmy was noticeably sad. He told me to wait for him at the sunflower field; he showed up two hours later with a note in his hand. Jimmy gave me the note and smiled. “This is my parting gift to you” he said. On the note was a poem, written not too long ago – I could still smell the fresh ink. The poem was short and direct. It must have been a real pain for Jimmy to write this; he didn’t know too many words. But it did not really matter, this was a gift from a close friend; nothing is more precious than that.

On the day of our departure, we were greeted by many of the town people who came to bid us farewell. Jimmy was not among them, however. I guess it was too sad for him to see us leaving. As the bus was departing, a sudden bell sound interrupted my train of thoughts. I recognized right away when I heard the sound that Jimmy was here following our trail. I opened the bus window and saw Jimmy chasing our bus on his rusty bike. When he saw me, he waved his hands unswervingly. I found myself sobbing a bit. If there ever was a moment when one is allowed to be emotional, this would be one.

He followed our bus for a very long time, until he could no longer keep up. That was the very last time I saw Jimmy. I returned to the town some years later, but Jimmy was no longer living there. He might have very well moved to the city in pursuit of his dream. Whatever the case, he will always have a special place in my heart. A friend is always a friend.

~Simon N. 2008

Among the seasons, I like spring the best. Every time spring comes, it is like opening up a new page in life and starting everything anew. Spring is the time when the flowers display their colors, the birds sing their favorite tunes, and the swallows seek their annual thrills upon the open sky. Even the occasional spring showers could not dampen one’s spirit, only bringing symphonic tunes to one’s ears. Spring is the ambassador of life, rejuvenating both body and soul.

Whenever I talk about spring, I could not help but to be reminded of my dear uncle Fred. He was and still is my favorite uncle; I was very fond of him. Unfortunately, he lived very far away from our home. I did not really have a chance to meet him very often. Every 2 years or so, he would make a visit to our house. Each time, he brought with him a special gift just for me. One time during his visit, he took me out to the backyard and gave me a small gift box. I opened the box and saw a handful of seeds. At that time, I didn’t know what type of seeds it was. But then again, I did not really need to know.

My uncle smiled, tapped me on the shoulder, and said. “My boy. Take these seeds, plant them, and fertilize the soil. A beautiful tree will grow from this. You may not see me everyday, but my spirit will always be with you.” That was the very last time I saw him. He died shortly after the visit.

From that day on, I did exactly what I was told. I planted the seeds, watered them, and saturated them with sunshine. After all that, only one survived. I watched the plant grew from a little bulb into a full-grown tree. It turned out that the tree bears the most sourly-tasted fruit in existence (an exaggeration). But there is something magical about it. Every spring and at almost the exact same date on the calendar, the tree yields the most beautiful peach blossoms I have ever seen.

I finally understand what my uncle was trying to teach me. Through the planting and caring of the tree, I have come to appreciate the importance of life. I learned to nurture, value and cherish it. As a result, my life thus far has been a happy and fulfilling one.

~Simon N. 2007