Florist near Petaling Street.
File photo dated December 26, 2005.
No matter how hard I tried not to be bothered by the commercialisation, I was invariably drawn in to the excitement, and the remorse. Beautiful bouquets, delectable pastries and mouth-watering cuisine all beckoned. The yearning to go up to the counter and ask for one of those was irresistible but it would have been an exercise in futility now.
There are several recurring occasions in the year that I wished would never come. They remind me of missed opportunities, of procrastination and of beautiful moments that I will never be able to cherish again. Now, I can only live in regret that I did not put in that extra effort to carry it through.
“Next year,” I told myself. I was confident. I had it all planned out. I had promised myself that it would be the best that I could afford. A filial child I was not until those few months. The next year would be a good time to make up for the years I had been recalcitrant and callous.
I began to understand the fragility of life then but I was still too naïve to understand that opportunity does not always come knocking twice. Next year, next week or tomorrow many never arrive again. Mine did not. She left. All that I am left with now are the emptiness of an unfulfilled task and an ache that can never be healed.
One Year Too Late