By Azlan Mahmud
He sat waiting inside his red Kancil, the air conditioner blowing out a gentle cool breeze. The radio was tuned to his favourite station, and was playing one of his all-time favourites, Sting's Englishman in New York. He found himself tapping to the music, his lips miming the lyrics. He stole a glance at his wrist watch - 8pm. It would be another 10 minutes before his friend arrived.
He had been working as a medical doctor for a good decade now, toiling in the now infamous government system. The work was hard; he had expected that. But now, he was growing disillusioned. He had been questioning his priorities. And why not? His contemporaries who worked in private practice were making 10 times more than he was, and they were enjoying the life that he wanted. He felt the time was right to join them.
It had been a late night and, as usual, he had finished his work in the operating theatre way past midnight. He wearily changed into his street clothes, and walked tiredly into the almost-empty hospital corridor. With the hours that I do, he thought to himself, I'd be a millionaire.
It was then that he caught sight of the bearded man lying on a bamboo mat in a small space between a wall and the entrance to the operating theatre.
The man was not alone; there were three children with him, the eldest probably no older than five. The youngest, who looked no more than a year old, began to stir in his sleep. His lips parted, and unintelligible sounds escaped from them, forming the prelude to a child's cry.
The man awoke slowly and reached for one of the milk bottles in a pink plastic bag. With a soft hushing sound, he gently placed the teat into the mouth of the child, who instinctively began suckling on it. The father's soft tapping on his thigh lulled him back to sleep.
He had seen this same man and his children in the same spot the past three nights that he was on call. Tonight though, something in him made him approach them. He knelt beside the man, and watched as his child's lips slowly parted and the bottle fell from his hands.
"He's asleep," he said, as he watched the bearded man's face. It mirrored a life of hardship, something he, who had lived all his life in the city, knew he could not even begin to comprehend. The man smiled.
"Yes. He's found it difficult to sleep ever since we came down from Bachok."
They have come a long way, he thought.
"Pardon me for asking, but why are you here?"
The man picked up the bottle and placed it back in the plastic bag. The child shifted uneasily in his sleep.
"My eldest daughter has cancer and she might not have long to live. The doctors here have tried their best. I want to be here when she goes to heaven."
Another child?
"Where is she warded?"
The man turned and pointed to a set of closed blue doors around the corner. Above it was a sign that read 'Paediatric Intensive Care Unit'.
"Surely you must have a place to stay?"
The man looked at his sons, who were in a deep slumber. Children without a care in the world.
"I have used up almost all my savings bringing my daughter here for treatment, and travelling up and down to visit her. Tomorrow I will have to go back as there's no one tending my durian orchard.
"And when I have collected enough money..." his voice trailed off and he turned to look once again at the closed blue doors ... "if my daughter still waits for me, I will be here when she decides to go."
Silence.
He got up, not knowing exactly what to say, and started to walk away. Just then, his pager beeped. He read the message on its small green screen, and let out a sigh. Another emergency.
He turned to look once again at the man and his children. The father was fast asleep, hugging his youngest child. It was almost as if he was afraid that this kid would leave him, too.
Who are they not to deserve the best of care? And with that thought, he walked briskly up the stairs towards the wards.
The loud honking of a car startled him out of his reverie. He looked left and saw his friend waving at him from a gleaming silver BMW. He watched as his smiling friend sauntered towards him wearing his designer clothes and shoes. He smiled back.
That is my friend's destiny, he thought. Mine is different.
From Starmag
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Body Parts
My mother used to ask me what the most important part of the body was. Through the years I would take a shot at what I thought was the correct answer.
When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to humans, so I said: "My ears, Mummy." She said, "No. Many people are deaf. But you keep thinking about it and I will ask you again soon."
Several years passed before she asked me the same question again. Since that first attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. This time I told her, "Mummy, sight is very important to everybody, so it must be our eyes."
She looked at me and said, "You are learning fast, but the answer is not correct because there are many people who are blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge and over the years, Mother asked me a couple more times and always her answer was, "No. But you are getting smarter every year, my child."
Then last year, my grandfather died. Everybody cried. Even my father. I remember that especially because it was only the second time I had seen him cry. Mum looked at me when it was our turn to say our final goodbye to Grandpa.
"Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?" she asked. I was taken aback. I'd always thought that this was a game between us.
She saw the confusion on my face and said: "This question is very important. It shows that you have really lived. For every body part you gave me in the past, I had explained why your answer was wrong. But today, you need to learn one important lesson."
She looked at me as only a mother could. I saw her eyes well up with tears as she continued: "My dear, the most important part of your body is your shoulder."
"Is it because it holds up the head?" I asked.
"No, it is because it can hold the head of a friend or a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life. I hope you have enough love and friends so that you will always have a shoulder to cry on when you need it."
Then and there I knew the most important body part is not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what you said and did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
Sent to Starmag by Dennis Chee
When I was younger, I thought sound was very important to humans, so I said: "My ears, Mummy." She said, "No. Many people are deaf. But you keep thinking about it and I will ask you again soon."
Several years passed before she asked me the same question again. Since that first attempt, I had contemplated the correct answer. This time I told her, "Mummy, sight is very important to everybody, so it must be our eyes."
She looked at me and said, "You are learning fast, but the answer is not correct because there are many people who are blind."
Stumped again, I continued my quest for knowledge and over the years, Mother asked me a couple more times and always her answer was, "No. But you are getting smarter every year, my child."
Then last year, my grandfather died. Everybody cried. Even my father. I remember that especially because it was only the second time I had seen him cry. Mum looked at me when it was our turn to say our final goodbye to Grandpa.
"Do you know the most important body part yet, my dear?" she asked. I was taken aback. I'd always thought that this was a game between us.
She saw the confusion on my face and said: "This question is very important. It shows that you have really lived. For every body part you gave me in the past, I had explained why your answer was wrong. But today, you need to learn one important lesson."
She looked at me as only a mother could. I saw her eyes well up with tears as she continued: "My dear, the most important part of your body is your shoulder."
"Is it because it holds up the head?" I asked.
"No, it is because it can hold the head of a friend or a loved one when they cry. Everybody needs a shoulder to cry on sometime in life. I hope you have enough love and friends so that you will always have a shoulder to cry on when you need it."
Then and there I knew the most important body part is not a selfish one. It is sympathetic to the pain of others. People will forget what you said and did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.
Sent to Starmag by Dennis Chee
The Smell Of Rain
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into Diana Blessing's small hospital room. As Diana was still groggy from surgery, her husband David held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Caesarean to deliver their daughter, Dana Lu Blessing, who was about 30cm long and weighed only 0.7kg. They knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like a bomb: "I don't think she's going to make it. There's only a 10% chance she will live through the night, and even if she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk or talk; she would probably be blind; she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions, from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their five-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of Dana's arrival, and being a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning, as Dana held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that her tiny newborn would live, and live to be a healthy, happy girl.
But David, fully awake and aware of the dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, must less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. He walked in and said that they needed to talk about making funeral arrangements.
Diana remembers she felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, "trying to include me in what was going on. But I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't." she said, "No, that is not going to happen. I don't care what the doctors say. Dana is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be going home with us!"
As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Dana clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for her parents.
Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially "raw", the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle her against their chest to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light amidst the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.
And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Today, Dana is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering grey eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simple, she is everything a girl can be and more. But ... this is far from the end of her happy story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer or 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting on her mother's lap on the bleachers of a local ballpark where Dustin's baseball team was practising.
As always, Dana was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, she asked, "Do you smell that?"
Diana sniffed the air and could detect the approach of a thunderstorm. "Yes, it smells like rain," she replied.
Dana closed her eyes and again asked: "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother said, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what she and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on his chest. And it was his loving scent that she remembered so well.
Sent to Starmag by Emily Loh and Kelly Tan
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24 weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Caesarean to deliver their daughter, Dana Lu Blessing, who was about 30cm long and weighed only 0.7kg. They knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like a bomb: "I don't think she's going to make it. There's only a 10% chance she will live through the night, and even if she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one."
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived. She would never walk or talk; she would probably be blind; she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions, from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation.
"No! No!" was all Diana could say. She and David, with their five-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of Dana's arrival, and being a family of four. Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
Through the dark hours of morning, as Dana held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of sleep, growing more and more determined that her tiny newborn would live, and live to be a healthy, happy girl.
But David, fully awake and aware of the dire details of their daughter's chances of ever leaving the hospital alive, must less healthy, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable. He walked in and said that they needed to talk about making funeral arrangements.
Diana remembers she felt so bad for him because he was doing everything, "trying to include me in what was going on. But I just wouldn't listen, I couldn't." she said, "No, that is not going to happen. I don't care what the doctors say. Dana is not going to die! One day she will be just fine, and she will be going home with us!"
As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Dana clung to life hour after hour, with the help of every medical machine and marvel her miniature body could endure. But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for her parents.
Because Dana's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially "raw", the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle her against their chest to offer the strength of their love. All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light amidst the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger. But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there. At last, when Dana turned two months old, her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.
And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Today, Dana is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering grey eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simple, she is everything a girl can be and more. But ... this is far from the end of her happy story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer or 1996 near her home in Irving, Texas, Dana was sitting on her mother's lap on the bleachers of a local ballpark where Dustin's baseball team was practising.
As always, Dana was chattering non-stop with her mother and several other adults nearby when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, she asked, "Do you smell that?"
Diana sniffed the air and could detect the approach of a thunderstorm. "Yes, it smells like rain," she replied.
Dana closed her eyes and again asked: "Do you smell that?"
Once again, her mother said, "Yes, I think we're about to get wet. It smells like rain."
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced, "No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest."
Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Dana hopped down to play with the other children. Before the rains came, her daughter's words confirmed what she and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on his chest. And it was his loving scent that she remembered so well.
Sent to Starmag by Emily Loh and Kelly Tan
Salty Coffee
He met her at a party. She was outstanding; many guys were after her, but nobody paid any attention to him. After the party, he invited her for coffee. She was surprised. So as not to appear rude, she went along.
As they sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, he asked the waiter: "Could you please give me some salt? I'd like to put it in my coffee."
They stared at him. He turned red, but when the salt came, he put it in his coffee and drank. Curious, she asked: "Why salt with coffee?" He explained:
"When I was a little boy, I loved near the sea. I liked playing in the sea ... I could feel its taste - salty, like salty coffee. Now every time I drink it, I think of my childhood and my hometown. I miss is and my parents, who are still there."
She was deeply touched. A man who can admit that he's homesick must love his home and care about his family. He must be responsible.
She talked too, about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was the start to their love story.
They continued to date. She found that he met all her "requirements". He was tolerant, kind, warm and careful. And to think she would have missed the catch if not for the salty coffee.
So they married and lived happily together. And every time she made coffee for him, she put in some salt, the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away and left her a letter which said:
"My dearest, please forgive my lifelong lie. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous I asked for salt instead of sugar.
"It was hard for me to ask for a change, so I just went ahead. I never thought that we would hit it off. Many times, I tried to tell you the truth, but I was afraid that it would ruin everything.
"Sweetheart, I don't exactly like salty coffee. But as it mattered so much to you, I've learnt to enjoy it. Having you with me was my greatest happiness. If I could live a second time, I hope we can be together again, even if it means that I have to drink salty coffee for the rest of my life."
She was speechless. One day, someone asked her what salty coffee tasted like. She replied: "Sweet ... it couldn't taste better."
Sent in to Starmag by Hew Zhi Xin
As they sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, he asked the waiter: "Could you please give me some salt? I'd like to put it in my coffee."
They stared at him. He turned red, but when the salt came, he put it in his coffee and drank. Curious, she asked: "Why salt with coffee?" He explained:
"When I was a little boy, I loved near the sea. I liked playing in the sea ... I could feel its taste - salty, like salty coffee. Now every time I drink it, I think of my childhood and my hometown. I miss is and my parents, who are still there."
She was deeply touched. A man who can admit that he's homesick must love his home and care about his family. He must be responsible.
She talked too, about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was the start to their love story.
They continued to date. She found that he met all her "requirements". He was tolerant, kind, warm and careful. And to think she would have missed the catch if not for the salty coffee.
So they married and lived happily together. And every time she made coffee for him, she put in some salt, the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away and left her a letter which said:
"My dearest, please forgive my lifelong lie. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous I asked for salt instead of sugar.
"It was hard for me to ask for a change, so I just went ahead. I never thought that we would hit it off. Many times, I tried to tell you the truth, but I was afraid that it would ruin everything.
"Sweetheart, I don't exactly like salty coffee. But as it mattered so much to you, I've learnt to enjoy it. Having you with me was my greatest happiness. If I could live a second time, I hope we can be together again, even if it means that I have to drink salty coffee for the rest of my life."
She was speechless. One day, someone asked her what salty coffee tasted like. She replied: "Sweet ... it couldn't taste better."
Sent in to Starmag by Hew Zhi Xin
Heaven's Grocery Store
As I was walking down life's highway many years ago, I came upon a sign that dead "Heaven's Grocery Store". When I got a little closer the doors swung open wide. And when I came to myself, I found myself standing inside. I saw a host of angels. They were everywhere.
One handled me a basket and said, "My child, shop with care."
Everything a human needed was in that store and what you could not carry, you could go back for more.
First, I got some Patience. Love was in the same row. Further down was Understanding - you need that wherever you go.
I got a box or two of Wisdom and Faith, a bag or two. And Charity, or course; I would need some of that too.
I couldn't miss the Holy Ghost ... it was all over the place. And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race. My basket was getting full but I remembered I needed Grace.
And then I chose Salvation, for Salvation was for free. I tried to get enough of that, for you and me.
Then I started towards the counter to pay my grocery bill, for I thought I had everything to do the Master's will.
As I went up the aisle I saw Prayer and put that in, for I knew when I stepped outside I would run into sin.
Peace and Joy were plentiful, the last things on the shelf. Song and Praise were hanging near, so I just helped myself.
Then I asked the angel, "Now how much do I owe?"
He smiled and said, "Just take them everywhere you go."
Again I asked, "Really now, how much do I owe?"
"My child," he said, "God paid your bill a long, long time ago."
Sent in to Starmag by Wong Mei Toon.
One handled me a basket and said, "My child, shop with care."
Everything a human needed was in that store and what you could not carry, you could go back for more.
First, I got some Patience. Love was in the same row. Further down was Understanding - you need that wherever you go.
I got a box or two of Wisdom and Faith, a bag or two. And Charity, or course; I would need some of that too.
I couldn't miss the Holy Ghost ... it was all over the place. And then some Strength and Courage to help me run this race. My basket was getting full but I remembered I needed Grace.
And then I chose Salvation, for Salvation was for free. I tried to get enough of that, for you and me.
Then I started towards the counter to pay my grocery bill, for I thought I had everything to do the Master's will.
As I went up the aisle I saw Prayer and put that in, for I knew when I stepped outside I would run into sin.
Peace and Joy were plentiful, the last things on the shelf. Song and Praise were hanging near, so I just helped myself.
Then I asked the angel, "Now how much do I owe?"
He smiled and said, "Just take them everywhere you go."
Again I asked, "Really now, how much do I owe?"
"My child," he said, "God paid your bill a long, long time ago."
Sent in to Starmag by Wong Mei Toon.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
This Is Your Life, Really.
Do what you love, and do it often.
If you don’t like something, change it.
If you don’t like your job, quit.
If you don’t have enough time, stop watching TV.
If you are looking for the love of your life, stop; they will be waiting for you when you start doing things you love.
Stop over analyzing, all emotions are beautiful.
When you eat, appreciate every last bite.
Life is simple.
Open your mind, arms, and heart to new things and people, we are united in our differences.
Ask the next person you see what their passion is, and share your inspiring dream with them.
Travel often; getting lost will help you find yourself.
Some opportunities only come once, seize them.
Life is about the people you meet, and the things you create with them so go out and start creating.
Life is short.
Live your dream and share/wear your passion.
~Ong Jiin Joo
Friday, August 5, 2011
One Forever Moment
By Graham Porter
Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. But precisely on schedule, and at a very early hour, I had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor.
"It's 6.30 - time to leave," I said, "Where are the kids?"
Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the beach for one last look."
I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my carefully-planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today they had only to relax in the car - sleep if the liked - while I alone fought the long road home.
I strode across the porch and out the screen door. There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously being to see how far into the lake they could wade without drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realise that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, in the overstuffed car trunk.
With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at once. But somehow, the scolding words stopped short of my lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water and the sky.
The longer I watched, the more the scene before me assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the passing of another year, another 10 years? The only reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their hair and the sound of their laughter mixing wind the wind and the waves.
Why, I asked myself, had I been so intent on leaving at 6.30 that I had rushed from the cottage to scold them? Did I have constructive discipline in mind, or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's drive lay ahead?
After all, no prized were to be won by leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel an hour later than planned, no 40-piece band was going to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain communication with my children, now and in later years, if I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive?
At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was motioning for me to join them. Then the others began waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun.
I hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the water, purposely dragging me with her.
Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our children's laughter that day, how full-bellied and gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, when they air their fondest moments - all but them - are among their most precious.
Shared in Starmag by Jasy Liew
Loading the car with the paraphernalia of our youngsters, ages three to nine, was hardly my idea of fun. But precisely on schedule, and at a very early hour, I had performed that miracle. With our vacation stay on Lake Michigan now over, I hurried back into the cottage to find my wife Evie sweeping the last of the sand from the floor.
"It's 6.30 - time to leave," I said, "Where are the kids?"
Evie put away the broom. "I let them run down to the beach for one last look."
I shook my head, annoyed by this encroachment on my carefully-planned schedule. Why had we bothered to rise at dawn if we weren't to get rolling before the worst of the traffic hit? After all, the children had already spent two carefree weeks building sand castles and ambling for miles along the lakeside in search of magic rocks. And today they had only to relax in the car - sleep if the liked - while I alone fought the long road home.
I strode across the porch and out the screen door. There, down past the rolling dunes, I spotted my four youngsters on the beach. They had discarded their shoes and were tiptoeing into the water, laughing and leaping each time a wave broke over their legs, the point obviously being to see how far into the lake they could wade without drenching their clothes. It only riled me more to realise that all their dry garments were locked, heaven knew where, in the overstuffed car trunk.
With the firmness of a master sergeant, I cupped my hands to my mouth to order my children up to the car at once. But somehow, the scolding words stopped short of my lips. The sun, still low in the morning sky, etched a gold silhouette around each of the four young figures at play. For them there was left only this tiny fragment of time for draining the last drop of joy from the sun and the water and the sky.
The longer I watched, the more the scene before me assumed a magic aura, for it would never be duplicated again. What changes might we expect in our lives after the passing of another year, another 10 years? The only reality was this moment, this glistening beach and these children - my children - with the sunlight trapped in their hair and the sound of their laughter mixing wind the wind and the waves.
Why, I asked myself, had I been so intent on leaving at 6.30 that I had rushed from the cottage to scold them? Did I have constructive discipline in mind, or was I simply in the mood to nag because a long day's drive lay ahead?
After all, no prized were to be won by leaving precisely on the dot. If we arrived at our motel an hour later than planned, no 40-piece band was going to be kept waiting. And how could I hope to maintain communication with my children, now and in later years, if I failed to keep my own youthful memory alive?
At the water's edge far below, my oldest daughter was motioning for me to join them. Then the others began waving, too, calling for Evie and me to share their fun.
I hesitated for only a moment, then ran to the cottage to grab my wife's hand. Half running, half sliding down the dunes, we were soon at the beach, kicking off our shoes. With gleeful bravado, we waded far out past our youngsters, Evie holding up her skirt and I my trouser cuffs, until Evie's foot slipped and she plunged squealing into the water, purposely dragging me with her.
Today, years later, my heart still warms to recall our children's laughter that day, how full-bellied and gloriously companionable it was. And not infrequently, when they air their fondest moments - all but them - are among their most precious.
Shared in Starmag by Jasy Liew
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