It took one and left many shattered in its aftermath. The irreplaceable lost will be felt for a long time. Some cry, some are stunned into silence but the innate agony of even the strongest will inevitably be brought to the surface. Tears will flow freely, whether out of sadness, out of guilt or for affections that will never be felt again, ever.

Death - I have been through six of people who are dearest to me. With each one, I thought the experience would progressively make me stronger in facing the next. I was wrong. With each, I grieved deeper. Now I am the only one left from my parents’ lineage. I try not to think too much about it but with my progressing frailty in health, I could smell it lurking around every turn.

There was a funeral last week. The patriarch of the family that I have known for more than twenty years passed away on Monday. I was privy to the intense grief that followed. Uncannily, I felt detached from all that. Perhaps death does not scare me anymore. I have come to see it as a process of life, which it truly is. We come into this world, we live, and then we die. That is an irrefutable fact.

Amidst all that grieving, a funeral should also be a celebration of a life well lived. For one last time, it should be a gathering of family and friends, coming together to honour the memory of that one person who had touched them one way or another. It should be a time of thanksgiving, sharing gratitude that our lives, whether we realise it or not, have been enriched by the deceased when he was alive. Death may be the end here but it is also heralds another beginning somewhere. A funeral should be a joyous occasion on that account.

Detached I may be from the grief; my being a spectator to the mourning was enlightening in many aspects. Living one day at a time is just not sufficient anymore. That one day must be well lived. It must be infused with meaning and purpose. Death - although it still lingers in my mind and is one leech that is difficult to shake off, it is also an impetus for me to make the best of what I have. Hopefully when I leave, mine will be one that celebrates a life well lived.

Every bend, every tree, every bridge on that road had been embedded in my tender mind. Dad and Mum had taken me on this windy country road many times. I was about five or six. My memories of those times were mostly of whitewashed milestones, inanimate objects, towering durian trees and bamboo clumps rather than of people. The greenery was refreshing. Streams gurgled and birds chirped. I loved it, except for the motion sickness. The windy road made me nauseous.

That evening was different. Mum spoke in a hushed voice. I have never seen her looked that anxious before. Her eyes, they reflected sadness. The road looked different in the dark. Smell, I remembered the smell, of the PVC car seat. I was edgy. It irritated my nostrils. I was getting ill. The only illumination came from the car headlights. Occasionally the flickering glows of fireflies broke the monotony of the dark sheet of black that enveloped everything, everything.

The trees seemed unfriendly, vicious. They rose up like enormous monsters that threatened to swallow us with a single gulp should we stray from the road. All was silent except for the constant whirring of the engine and the incessant eerie screeching of the cicadas. It was all silent. Mum did not say a word. I wondered why, why we were making that journey in the middle of the night. She could have waited till Dad came back from work.

The hike down to the house was a harrowing one. Rocks that were stacked into steps were sometimes loose. I do not remember if I was carried or climbed down by myself. I do not even remember the fifteen minutes journey down. Did Mum cry? I cannot recall. Maybe she did. Did I see the body? I truly cannot remember. But I remember the casket, the edges, the colour, the trimmings. The corners, those sharp corners of the casket, they kept popping up in my mind.

I remember running around the casket in a game of catch. There were flowers. I had to wear black. They were sewn on the spot. The sewing machine never stopped churning out shirts and pants and shorts. I hated how it smelt, how I sweated and how the sweat made the clothes smell worse. It was stiff and tore easily. My cousins all had to wear black too. I was punished by Mum. My cousins complained to her that I threw stones at them. I do not remember the pain but I remember the rotan, thin and supple, and Mum wielding it threateningly at me.

The hearse was a big vehicle. Did I accompany the casket in it? I am not very sure. Maybe I did. We passed Titi Kerawang. We passed the Sungai Pinang town. We passed paddy fields, stilted kampong houses, orchards. These are all a blur as we raced to the church. There was Mass. I did not understand what the priest said. It was taking too long. I shifted uneasily on the hard bench.

At the cemetery, slabs and slabs of granite, polished, stood erect in rows. Some had small portraits. They looked old. At the front row, freshly dug red earth piled up high by the edge of a hole. The casket was put in. It was deep. There were tears, some sniffles too. I did not cry. I did not even feel anything. It was just another unusual adventure. Throwing stones at the other kids was fun. Maybe I will do that again when Mum is not watching.

Those are very scant recollections of the first death that I ever experienced. The emotions of the moment were lost on me. I was too young to understand. What is death? What is life? I hardly knew him, save for the few days that he came to stay with us. As I think back, I mourn for the fact that I did not get the opportunity to know him better. I would really love to be pampered by him, to be patted on the head, to sit on his lap, or just sit beside him and inhale the fragrant aroma of his pipe tobacco.

Pipe, I have that, passed down to me from Mum. The pipe that he had used is one that I will fondly remember him by together with a portrait that was probably enlarged and used for his funeral. A careful scrutiny revealed engravings on both sides of the pipe. On the left is “Invicta Finest Briar” and the right “Allegro Hand Made.” Those are the only precious possesions I have that are his.

He was a war hero too. He helped some British soldiers evade capture by the Japanese during World War Two. He was given a certificate of appreciation. It is a cloth scroll framed and displayed proudly in the house that has become my uncle’s now. That is all I can remember of my Ah Kong, my maternal grandfather. May his soul rest in eternal peace.

She was not the first but she left a very lasting impression on me. I have never forgotten her. Through the years, I have often yearned for her, yearned for her fragrance, yearned for a touch of her silky smoothness. She had always been on my mind. There were others but none could enthral me like she did.

I have often talked about her to Wuan – of how I missed her, of how I would like to see her again, of how I would like to bathe in her heady scent. Wuan understood. She looked and she searched. Her efforts were not in vain.

“I found her,” Wuan coolly told me one morning after coming back from the market. Still, there were tinges of excitement in her voice and I could sense that she shared the thrill I felt.

All my life, I only knew her as Ham Siu Fa, Cantonese for smiling flower. It was an odd name because there never was a hint of a smile on her although she never failed to leave a smile on my face during our encounters. I was glad the search had finally ended.

Ham siu fa, her scientific name Michelia Figo, is of the Magnolia family. Among others, the fragrant yellow cempaka and white cempaka are also of the Magnolia genus. The michelia figo is also known as the banana shrub for its sweet fragrance like that of a banana.

Now, there is one ham siu fa tree that stands prominent in Wuan’s garden. She found her all right. And this little tree is blooming. I could almost smell its sweet bouquet when I went through the images that Wuan captured and sent to me.

The poem Magnolia Dreams was written in 2003. It is dedicated to the two most wonderful women in my life – Mum and Wuan. They had gladly indulged my request to cultivate the michelia figo simply because I loved the sight and smell of this tree. Every time thoughts of this flower crossed my mind, I would think of these two women who had brought so much joy into my life and I would invariably smile. Smiling flower - a truly befitting name.

Photo by Wuan.

Photo by Wuan.

Photo by Wuan.

This is a beautiful morning. I woke up to a cool breeze. The sun has not gotten too harsh yet. It is all bright and cheery and so difficult not to be infected by the good spirits that is prevailing. It is such a stark contrast against the gloom that had hung over me yesterday. I thought about yesterday and the events that had unfolded since I left Dr. Liong’s clinic came rushing back in an unending torrent of despair.

What could I have done so wrong within those six months that could have caused my creatinine level to leapfrog to such a critical level? I have been cautious with my diet, counting the portions and all. Yes, there were times that I indulged but that was far and few in between. I have to keep a strict diet from now on. Indulgences will have to become a thing of the past.

Again, thoughts of death clung on to me, infusing into every cell in my body. I am not afraid of death itself but the process of dying. I fear the suffering, not of my own but the people who have to suffer along with me. I can fully relate to seeing death slowly eating away a loved one. I can relate to the feeling of helplessness and futility. The impotence of those moments was an absolutely traumatic experience.

I have been thinking about all the things that I have yet to accomplish. My time here is getting shorter by the day. I thought about Wuan and I wept. We had promised to grow old together. We had promised to still be holding each other’s hand and still be as loving even when we are into our sixties and seventies. I had promised to look after her to the best of my abilities. She had devoted so much of her life to me. She had made my life so much more meaningful and made those depressing moments easier to bear. She had been patient, understanding, and most of all, a faithful companion beyond compare. Of all things, I worry most for her.

I pray that God give her strength as He had always given me for us to surmount this uncertain period together. She had been really worried since I broke the news to her but Wuan being Wuan did only what she knows best - to cheer me up despite her own anxieties. She had always been concerned for my well-being and took the trouble to learn about my problems and adapted her lifestyle to accommodate me. God has truly blessed me with an angel of a friend. And I pray that He will continue to bless us and allow us to spend a little more time together than He had intended.

Near the edge, she stood, alone, overlooking the green grassy field that sloped down to the stream. Not tall, not assuming and not showy, her simplicity made her even more alluring. As we neared, we could see how callous time had been to her. The years were truly showing - the gnarled roots, the weather beaten bark, the humps where branches once stretched out from. She had stood there for as long as I could remember, stout and unwavering, through the generations, where she provided relief from the elements to many.

After a leisurely walk around the Botanical Gardens, Mum, Wuan and I sought some respite under her outstretched branches. The sun was beginning to scorch down on us. Fascinatingly, it was soothingly cool beneath her domed crown of lustrous green foliage. As we rested, we felt the vigour slowly returning. Despite the buzz of the afternoon crowd, we experienced serenity under her copious shade.

How much she had seen, we wondered. Surely she was privy to the sweet whispers between lovers as they leaned on her. She must have heard the delighted shrieks of children playing catch around her sturdy trunk. Unquestionably, she would also have quietly observed elderly couples reminisce about the years gone by as she unfailingly breathed some youthfulness into them again, as she had done time and again.

Yes, this ebony tree has witnessed them all and will continue to play witness for many generations to come. She knows untold human pain and passion. She knows the joys of being children, the carefree bliss of young lovers and the contentment of couples in their twilight years. Each time we seek refuge under her, she imparts to us a little of her wisdom of the ages. In turn we leave with her some part of ourselves to be silently chronicled, never to be told, never to be revealed.

One day, Wuan and I will retrace the steps that we took with Mum. We want to visit an old acquaintance. Mum left behind some part of herself with her. Wuan and I did too. Perhaps under her outstretched arms, we may discover something about ourselves we never knew. Perhaps under her comforting shadow, I may be able to relive some beautiful moments that I had with Mum and Dad when I was just a little boy trampling all over the green grassy slopes that she had watched over from her vantage point.