simplistic and quaint.

it's been more than a year. slightly more.

strangely, on the actual anniversary itself i didn't feel much. i barely felt anything.

like i observed before, it happens more in obscure moments. like tonight-

i ate a lonely late dinner again tonight.

came home late from doing art in school.

once again, like most other nights where i eat lonely late dinners (though i don't eat lonely late dinners on most other nights), i thought of my dad, and visualised him sitting in his usual spot.

and each bite of food felt awkward in my mouth.

i started thinking of all the things my dad and i would've done together if he were still alive, in the future. like maybe after ib, or ns, or uni. go fish. go exploring. go do something father-son like. then as i had a family- three generations bonding, him, me, and my children.

i started to miss the good ol' chats we used to have.

we never really chat about anything in particular.

but they were good nonetheless.

simplistic and quaint.

good chats.

who's to say.

they can come at really random, out-of-place times.

like today, whilst i was reading the chinese passage on H1N1.
not even sure how it linked, i think H1N1 linked to hospital in my mind, and that linked to dad.

so yeah, strong emotional waves can hit at even the most out of place times like those.
and likewise, in the most 'relevant' times, like going to the columbarium, it is possible to not feel much.

i like this poem, i read on a friend's blog.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am in a thousand winds that blow,

I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain,

I am the fields of ripening grain.

I am in the morning hush,

I am in the graceful rush

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,

I am the starshine of the night.

I am in the flowers that bloom,

I am in a quiet room.

I am in the birds that sing,

I am in each lovely thing.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there. I do not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

beautiful.
i'm not belittling the idea of weeping at a grave.
however i cannot deny that i like the perspective Mary Elizabeth Frye presents.
i like it, i feel i can relate to it, in a way.
thanks, friend.





in a thousand winds that blow.

before the memories fade.

i should pen down all the memories i have of my dad, before they grow dim.


as i ate supper today, i sat at the table alone.
and i was hit by this ancient memory, a lil' something which happened somewhere in primary 4 or so.

my round, marble-top dining table.
my dad, sat, roughly opposite me, a bit to the right.
and i probably had a sulk on my face.

it was lunchtime, i had just returned from school, and i was eating merrily (expressed in speed) when my dad sat down next to me, and scrutinised my less-than-appealing manners.
and then he told me how gentlemen should eat, and i was not eating like a gentleman, and it was bad manners, and i told him, dad i'm eating at home, it doesn't matter. and the likes.

but anyway he made me slow down, and raised his voice everytime the rate of my food-in-mouth replacing went too fast, or the speed of my spoon was too hasty (seriously). and i got so frustrated, cos the way i enjoyed my food was to stuff myself, so it was a pain to eat slowly.

well, he succeeded in that session, and many more onwards.
whenever he saw me eat a tad too fast again, at any meal time, his standard line would be, "Slowly, ryannn..."



I appreciatively chewed on my food as I savoured this memory tonight.
and smiled inwardly, seeing how my dad had succeeded.



thanks dad. (:





feels like a descending sort-of sorrow.

so beautiful.

i have a grandaunt, we call her "ji gou".
and we visit her every chinese new year.

not so long ago, sometime in the middle of this year-
on a sunday, our dad asked us not to make plans after church youth service, as ji gou had fallen ill, and was hospitalised.
he wanted us to go visit her as a family.

at the hospital, ji gou had seemed so different.
her hair seemed grey-er, and it was cut short, compared to the relatively vibrant curls we used to see every once a year.
even something about her face had changed-it was paler, and had lost that familiar spark.
her eyes that once squinted with happiness were now open, and sad.

my dad, knowing her the best, talked to her in dialect, asked her questions.
i watched, and flashed an occasional smile, touched her thin elderly hand.
i watched, and saw how my dad was just sitting there, beside her, continously exchanging words of dialect, continuously smiling at her with his bright face.
at one time, my dad intended to ask a nurse if visitors were allowed to bring in food and feed her, and would've done so if my mum hadn't pointed out that she was only allowed to take specific forms of food.
when it was time to go, we said our wishes and byes, my dad comforted her for a while more, and we left.

*************
a few months later-

as i sit on a chair near the casket, an elderly woman enters through the doors.
i only notice her, and recognise her as ji gou, when she arrives at the foot of the casket.
her hair was still cut short, just like in the hospital, and she looked more or less the same.

and as she reached the very side of the casket, she shifts her hands, to support her weight, and, with the support of others, shakily stands up.

her sad, open eyes looked down.


and in the few, brief, seconds she had to see my father's face...she did.


almost collapsing, she sat back into the wheelchair.
and was escorted away.







who would've guessed.

goodnight dad.

on August 31, 2009, Monday, 7:26am, William Goh, my father, passed on.

and it's amazingly relieving to know, that he accepted Christ the night before, not as a last minute i-know-i'm-gonna-die sorta thing, but as an honest sincere decision. why? because he didn't know he was going to die.

my dad had sat down in the middle of the kitchen, his seat on a chair and his legs propped up on another one.

my maid had gone up to tell us. i was the only one who heard and/or was available, so i went down to check.

seeing him on the char in the middle of nowhere, i asked "dad, what happened?"

"it's okay, i'm okay. just need to rest for a while." (the words might not be exact, as i had just woken up.)

"alright." i hugged him. one last time.

i started on my way back upstairs, when he called after me.

"goodnight."




"haha, dad. we just woke up, it's 6am."

his fever had made him ever so slightly delusional.

i went back upstairs, had to dress for teacher's day, as i was supposed to emcee. but eh, it could wait, so i lay down for a while more.

five, ten minutes later, my maid comes rushing upstairs.

"Ma'm, ma'm! Sir collapse!"

the whole family rushed out of their rooms, zooming downstairs into the backyard.

he thought he had garnered enough strength to walk to one of his favourite spots in the house- the steps leading to the backyard. my maid, after supporting him there, left him, but even seated down he couldn't support his back upright.

our family gathered around him. people rushed in and out of the house. called ambulance. called my godma (dad's sis). mum started performing cpr.

"hello? 44 Jalan Kesoma." I said into the phone.

"6282 6491. yes, please come quickly."

"is he breathing?" the man on the other side asked.

"yes." i replied.

my mum exclaimed frantically, "barely!"

"barely!" i said into the phone.

"okay we're on our way now."

"yes, please come quickly." i said.

"okay."

i rushed back to my dad's side. mum was still performing cpr, russ and rach were crying, saying daddy please, daddy please, and crying out dad! dad!!! reuben held his right hand, tears streaming down, and told my distraught mother, "daddy feels very cold, mum."

i sat beside him, on the steps, holding his left hand, and kept praying, kept proclaiming Jesus' name, kept proclaiming that he won't go on that day.

ambulance came, doctors did cpr, loaded him onto the ambulance.

after calling our respective schools to tell them we couldn't go, my godma arrives shortly after on a cab, and then drives us on our parents' car to the hospial.

we wait anxiously for half an hour, while i keep building up faith that he won't die on that day.

and like a movie, the nurse calls his name.
"Goh Lye Guan?"

we follow her to a doctor, he slowly breaks the news to us in an ambiguous manner which becomes unambiguous when the word "death" is heard.

emotions shatter across the people.

i had not absorbed it yet because i was in some sort of denial.

"it can't be, it can't be. God like how You rose up Lazarus, like how You rose up the man's little girl, even if my dad's dead you can raise him up."

a while later, we're led in to see the body.

i touch him.
"daddy, wake up."

my mum's tearful eyes looked into mine and she said "ryan, don't ask dad to wake up, let him go peacefully."

and then i broke down.

and it's already been more than a week.
seems really recent, yet really long ago.


funny to think how his last words were like an accident yet not so. he didn't know he was going, after i left him he told my maid that he was going to the doctor later and told her that he wanted her to iron and ready his pants, etc.

how did he accept Christ?

well my mum felt it in her heart to share with him one more time the night before. so she did, and asked him if he wanted to, and he said ok, twice to confirm. she then prayed with him.

the following morning (his last), he told my mum how the numbness in his fingers had left him, and he proclaimed thanks to Jesus. he told my mum how various pain in parts of his body had left him, and he thanked Jesus, all as my mum recalls, in a child-like voice, one she never heard him speak in before.


well, i'll see you soon dad. thanks for accepting Christ, it's really heart-lifting. the human side of me wished that i could see the new-born you now, but God had called you back for a greater, better purpose.

and so, till I wake up on those golden roads, where the light is bright, and meet you again,

i'll have to say, goodnight, dad.