Father’s day

Thinking of my father

I took this photograph, recently, at the Kowloon Public Ferry Pier at Tsim Sha Tsui, Hong Kong. This man was looking at a luxury liner docking. He had his right arm resting on the barrier and his left hand holding on to his coat and a bag. He was looking at the harbor for a long time and this setting reminded me of my father who left for Hong Kong before I was born.

Standing on the waterline, with his belongings, must have brought back all sorts of memories of his life. Before the days of air travel, getting on a sailing or a steamship was the main ways to get in and out of that place. He probably didn’t travel in such a luxurious cruise boat in the old days but in something smaller and with less passenger comforts.

The reason for his first journey to that port was probably not as a tourist wishing to see the pearl of the orient or to experience the fragrance bay. This destination was perhaps not of his own choosing and it was the turbulent circumstances forced on him at that time.

He could be longing for his family to come to visit him or he could be wondering when he could depart to see his wife and young child that he had left behind in some far away land. It may be that, finally, this man has made some money over the years and is waiting to board the ship and returning, for the first time, to his long awaiting family and home. Or this could be the last picture of this man, on land, before he jumped fatally into the sea.

Gratitude to our ancestors

Ancestors\' tablets in temple

The first week of April, during the annual remembrance festival, my cousins and I went to visit the graves of our relatives (our grand father and mother and uncle). We all recalled in our own ways, our gratitude to our parents and our parent’s parents. We are glad to be here.

Our ancestors, either buried or cremated, not physically with us, silent, but are not forgotten. They are still alive in our mind. I guess, in their spirit world, they too are seeking out their missing ones, dead or life, in their own form, to tell stories about themselves and to listen to news of other persons or events.

Two years ago, my mother died, in the hospital; she was in a coma for forty days. It was my good fortune, to have my mother, to know her only when she decided to let you into her thoughts, was by her side and to share a house together, almost all her eighty years of life. Of course, there were many times over the years, we each thought the other was unthinking and that we had injured each other, by words and/or deeds, assured that we were not continuing to be together anymore, but then we stayed on anyway.

What I find most amazing is the fact that we have ancestors, relatives, brothers and sisters, not of our choosing, nether did they particularly had any interest in us, but yet we are part of this humanity. We are all related by blood and could reach each other, if we so desire, but often don’t, for mutual comfort, to help each other, to dispel our pains, fears, longings etc.