Some things shouldn’t wait to be said

The clock of life keeps ticking. Quiet announcements from friends and peers appear from time to time about the passing of fathers, mothers, grandparents, uncles, aunts.

I note the passing of each member of that generation as it comes. In the wise words of Mufasa, this is simply the circle of life.

Earlier this week, I saw a post of one of a very close friend from my youth, sharing the news of her father’s passing.

And the emotions hit me like a wave.

Tears.

Sadness.

Of course, the depth of my own feelings was nothing compared to the ocean of grief my dear friend must be going through.

To be honest, I was not close to her father and did not know him well. So at first, I puzzled over why the news struck me so deeply.

I later surmised that this news hit much closer to home because of the link to my childhood I shared with this friend.

I'm aware of life's impermanence, the edges of time we are all bound to, and what it means for my own parents. But moments like this bring the inevitability into sharper focus.

As I watched the online broadcast of her father’s wake and funeral, I was touched by the wonderful stories and anecdotes shared. Their family took comfort in the belief that their father was listening from heaven.

But from where I stand now, I have no such inner reassurances.

I thought about my own parents, and the memories and stories I would share when the time comes.

And I decided to write some of them here, now, while they can still know how I will remember them.

For my dad...

I will remember our morning drives to school in his purple “ninja” Land Cruiser, stopping at the sundry shop in Foh Sang to pick up the Daily Express newspaper.

I will remember those torturous math sessions at the dining table, where my persistent blank looks triggered his dramatic, guttural “vomit blood!!!” expression. The same reaction also surfaced during our early driving lessons when he tried to teach me how to handle a car.

I love how my dad always picks up the phone whenever I call, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. Once, he even answered mid-badminton game, the echoey shouts of other uncles in the background as he asked what I needed.

Dad also goes through “song phases,” where a favourite track gets played on repeat for an hour sometimes two. UB40’s cover of Can’t Help Falling in Love with You is forever etched into my mind. It’s his way of getting the song deep into his blood and brain. I now do the same, to the equal exasperation and amusement of my kids.

I love his infectious enthusiasm for the simplest things, especially engineering structures. Every road trip involved stops to marvel at bridges or dams. He modelled lifelong learning, pointing out little design features while making mental notes for himself. Picture us, standing alongside my dad as he excitedly goes on "You see that beam? Why do you think it is placed there? Well you see..."

He made friends with everyone and could strike up a conversation with a stranger and before long, they would be sure to find a shared connection over a mutual friend, family member, colleague or shared interest.

When I left for university in Perth, dad came with me to help me settle in. We explored the campus, opened a bank account, and shopped for winter clothes and supplies. He flew home the day I started classes. When I returned to my empty room, I found a handwritten letter from him with reminders, and words telling me how proud he was, and how much he and Mum loved me.

For mum...

She is the yin to dad’s yang, the quiet strength and calm energy that holds our family together.

I remember her waking before dawn to drive an hour to work as a school principal. The daily grind must have been gruelling. But the upside is that she was home by three o'clock on most afternoons. And we could go on our afternoon adventures together.

It couldn’t have been easy to have three little monkeys tagging along everywhere, but I never remember her complaining. She must have liked our company.

Some days we’d head to Khidmat Supermarket to pick up some things, where my brothers and I would probably be mucking around with the shopping trolley. Or we might head to the Bukit Padang market where I would watch her choose fruit, vegetables and fish.  The highlight would be the tau fu fah stall where she would buy fresh soya bean milk and tau fu fah for afternoon tea.

Sometimes, she’d take us to the library to borrow a big stash of books. 

Sometimes we might ask to go to the museum, and she would take us there where we would wander through the displays, ducking into model caves in the Neolithic section, or bouncing on the model longhouses.

On sunny afternoons, she might take us swimming at the golf club and perhaps let us play at the beach, then afterwards we would enjoy hot pisang goreng as a snack.

These afternoon excursions with Mum form the backbone of my childhood memories.

We generally saw Mum as “the strict parent,” probably because she oversaw homework and daily routines. But she was fiercely on our side.

I remember one particularly sad high school memory... my little notebook planner was confiscated by an overzealous prefect because it contained side notes expressing my thoughts (“History was boring today,” “Looking forward to Saturday”). I cried over the injustice, and when I told Mum, she fully sympathised.

She spoke to my school principal, asking for the planner’s return, assuring her that I would keep it at home. But the request was denied. My mum persisted saying that she believed those little notes supported the development of creative expression. But that particular school principal was famously notorious for being unreasonable. Still, I was always touched by the fact that my mum steadfastly stood up for me.

♥️

One thing that means the most to me about both mum and dad is their unwavering support. I still remember the first time I shared my faith deconstruction journey with them. I was nervous, bracing for disappointment or the sense that I had “abandoned” the faith. But no such thing happened. They looked past the labels and saw me for who I truly am. A seeker of truth, willing to follow deep questions wherever they lead. In a community where I often have to hide this part of myself to avoid hurting others, it is an incredible gift to know that, with them, I am still fully seen.

Some things shouldn’t wait to be said. And this is how I will remember them.