Uncle
I remember your round face and your eyes that were always crinkled, as if you were about to laugh any moment. I witnessed your hairs turn gray. Life was not that easy, but you had that patience, that inner strength, that made me believe that things will be better, though not that soon.
I remember visiting your tiny yet lively home. Aunty liked pretty things, and you had dainty curtains and table clothes and pillow cases. There was a table with a lazy susan in the center, which amazed me so much I overturned it to see how it works. I remember helping cousin do the laundry, and how she loved the taste of Perla, though I could never relate why. We would sweep your front yard, always careful not to break your potted bonsai plants. Every morning you would water them, or prune them, and shape them with tiny metal wires. You had a set that looked like a mini-forest, and that in a way introduced me to the world of art.
There were the summers spent with your family, and cousin and I tried to earn money by sealing misua packets with mosquito coil. 1 cent per packet, but it wasn’t the money that interested me, it was the smell of flour and the wonder of the mixing, drying, and grinding processes. And the fact that you always kept a dog for a pet.
Back then I could not understand why you and Aunty sang loudly in church, and lifted your hands in seeming joy. Now I know what kept you strong all those years.
And you loved to read. I can’t remember how many of your books we ‘borrowed’, only to never return them. But you didn’t get angry. I guess you felt it was your only investment in us, and it is true. For whereas Dad was an artisan of things mechanical, you were the dreamer, the poet, the philosopher. Your books showed us worlds that were waiting to be discovered. You stressed your points not with anger, but with reason and wisdom. And of course a laugh.
Now we no longer have your hand to press to our foreheads when evening arrives. We will miss you, but I am comforted in the knowldge that you are at peace, eternally.
