- Money cannot buy happiness but it’s more comfortable to cry in a Mercedes than on a bicycle.
- Forgive your enemy but remember the bastards name.
- Help someone when they are in trouble and they will remember you...when they're in trouble again.
- Many people are alive only because it’s illegal to shoot them.
- Alcohol does not solve any problems, but then again neither does milk~!
Friday, August 26, 2011
Rules to Remember in Life
Monday, August 22, 2011
Guardian Grandma
By, Cheah Kok Hin
July 17, 2001, was the first time I had to visit my grandmother at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Po-po had been suffering from diabetes for a few years. That day, she had to go for a heart operation.
I remember that morning. I was 12 then, and felt so bored at the hospital that I went around playing with my cousins and brother. We didn't notice the gloomy faces of our parents, who soon asked my uncle to take us back to his condominium. There, we had a great time at the pool.
I didn't know why, or how, but for the first time, I felt that the water was clearer than usual. I reckoned the workers had cleaned it. I played and played, and didn't realise the time.
It was the best swim I'd ever had. I wasn't afraid of the water, and I didn't think about drowning. It was as if a guardian angel was among us ...
After a few hours, uncle took us back to the hospital. All that swimming had left me tired. Suddenly, I remembered my grandmother.
"How is Po-po?"
"I don't think she will make it," uncle said.
I was dumbstruck. Just as we reached the ward, the lift door opened and there were all my aunts and uncles, crying. My cousins were sitting in a corner, heads down.
I started to cry. Mom came and hugged me. I shrugged her off and went to a corner. I couldn't believe what was happening.
Back in my uncle's car, suddenly, I knew why I had had such a great time in the pool. It was Po-po's was of giving me a happy time, even when she was having a bad time ...
Sent to Starmag
July 17, 2001, was the first time I had to visit my grandmother at the intensive care unit of the hospital. Po-po had been suffering from diabetes for a few years. That day, she had to go for a heart operation.
I remember that morning. I was 12 then, and felt so bored at the hospital that I went around playing with my cousins and brother. We didn't notice the gloomy faces of our parents, who soon asked my uncle to take us back to his condominium. There, we had a great time at the pool.
I didn't know why, or how, but for the first time, I felt that the water was clearer than usual. I reckoned the workers had cleaned it. I played and played, and didn't realise the time.
It was the best swim I'd ever had. I wasn't afraid of the water, and I didn't think about drowning. It was as if a guardian angel was among us ...
After a few hours, uncle took us back to the hospital. All that swimming had left me tired. Suddenly, I remembered my grandmother.
"How is Po-po?"
"I don't think she will make it," uncle said.
I was dumbstruck. Just as we reached the ward, the lift door opened and there were all my aunts and uncles, crying. My cousins were sitting in a corner, heads down.
I started to cry. Mom came and hugged me. I shrugged her off and went to a corner. I couldn't believe what was happening.
Back in my uncle's car, suddenly, I knew why I had had such a great time in the pool. It was Po-po's was of giving me a happy time, even when she was having a bad time ...
Sent to Starmag
Once Upon A Time...
Raya in 2104? AHNAF, 16, imagines a teenager's musings on that important day...
Dear diary, yet another hectic day, I had three exams: civics, economics, and history. Bungled economics, that's for sure. Well, at least I'm exempted from my normal eight0hour tuition schedule!
Unfortunately, the exams by themselves aren't enough. We received a history assignment today - something about a ... what was it? "Hari Raya". Puan Leong said that today was actually Hari Raya and provided us with some source material.
According to the books, Hari Raya was an important festival, much like Deepavali and Chinese New Year. What on earth those terms mean I have no idea; I assume they're other festive occasions. These celebrations must have been held a long time ago, before another hole ruptured the ozone layer and the soil was irradiated by pre-emptive nuclear strikes, forcing our people to evacuate. See, I told you I'd been studying my history!
On Hari Raya, people would pray together in the morning, and then families would gather to eat until they were sick. They'd often invite friends, too. After that, everyone would be relaxing while the children played together.
Preposterous! Frankly, I was perplexed; didn't the adults have jobs? Weren't the children busy studying? I asked Puan Leong about this and she replied no, because it was a holiday. I asked her what a holiday meant; it was difficult for me to understand, but essentially it's a time when people don't have to do their work. Can you believe it?!
I told her not to speak of such things. Only troublemakers and lunatics say that work doesn't need to be done. Why would anyone neglect the opportunity to earn more money? Our Beloved Leader has declared that we must earn as much as possible and we must always obey Our Beloved Leader.
We were shown photographs and I was struck by the vivid colours and beauty of the clothes. I cross-referenced some terms, like Baju Melayu. Apparently it was a traditional outfit. The skills to craft it died out years ago because no one foresaw significant profts.
Most interestingly, the source material also highlighted a few remnants from Hari Raya. Now, at least, some of the things that I noticed today make more sense. The morning prayer congregation, for example, and the ketupat-flavoured food pellets issued.
I know some people maintain that the whole "Raya" business is an anachronism, but I can't help but feel that it's good to preserve some traditions. Then I'll be certain that if someone from, say, a century ago were to appear now, they'd be proud of what we've become.
Ahnaf, a self-confessed bookacholic and geek, won second prize at this year's (2004) MPH Young Writers Competition
Dear diary, yet another hectic day, I had three exams: civics, economics, and history. Bungled economics, that's for sure. Well, at least I'm exempted from my normal eight0hour tuition schedule!
Unfortunately, the exams by themselves aren't enough. We received a history assignment today - something about a ... what was it? "Hari Raya". Puan Leong said that today was actually Hari Raya and provided us with some source material.
According to the books, Hari Raya was an important festival, much like Deepavali and Chinese New Year. What on earth those terms mean I have no idea; I assume they're other festive occasions. These celebrations must have been held a long time ago, before another hole ruptured the ozone layer and the soil was irradiated by pre-emptive nuclear strikes, forcing our people to evacuate. See, I told you I'd been studying my history!
On Hari Raya, people would pray together in the morning, and then families would gather to eat until they were sick. They'd often invite friends, too. After that, everyone would be relaxing while the children played together.
Preposterous! Frankly, I was perplexed; didn't the adults have jobs? Weren't the children busy studying? I asked Puan Leong about this and she replied no, because it was a holiday. I asked her what a holiday meant; it was difficult for me to understand, but essentially it's a time when people don't have to do their work. Can you believe it?!
I told her not to speak of such things. Only troublemakers and lunatics say that work doesn't need to be done. Why would anyone neglect the opportunity to earn more money? Our Beloved Leader has declared that we must earn as much as possible and we must always obey Our Beloved Leader.
We were shown photographs and I was struck by the vivid colours and beauty of the clothes. I cross-referenced some terms, like Baju Melayu. Apparently it was a traditional outfit. The skills to craft it died out years ago because no one foresaw significant profts.
Most interestingly, the source material also highlighted a few remnants from Hari Raya. Now, at least, some of the things that I noticed today make more sense. The morning prayer congregation, for example, and the ketupat-flavoured food pellets issued.
I know some people maintain that the whole "Raya" business is an anachronism, but I can't help but feel that it's good to preserve some traditions. Then I'll be certain that if someone from, say, a century ago were to appear now, they'd be proud of what we've become.
Ahnaf, a self-confessed bookacholic and geek, won second prize at this year's (2004) MPH Young Writers Competition
Friday, August 19, 2011
The Demise of Common Sense
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend by the name of Common Sense.
No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were lost long ago amidst bureaucratic red tape.
But he will be remembered as having cultivated such valued lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge). His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.
Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only worsened his condition!
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, spilled it in her lap and was awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two step-brothers, My Rights and I'm Whiner. Not many attended his funeral because few realised he was gone.
Sent to Starmag by Jackie Low
No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were lost long ago amidst bureaucratic red tape.
But he will be remembered as having cultivated such valued lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, and that life isn't always fair.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not kids, are in charge). His health began to rapidly deteriorate when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place.
Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate, teens suspended from school for a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student only worsened his condition!
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer aspirin to a student but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Finally, Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband, churches became businesses, and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense finally gave up the ghost after a woman failed to realise that a steaming cup of coffee was hot, spilled it in her lap and was awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by two step-brothers, My Rights and I'm Whiner. Not many attended his funeral because few realised he was gone.
Sent to Starmag by Jackie Low
Right Place, Right Time
Soon after Sept 11, one company invited the remaining members of other firms which had been decimated by the attack on the Twin Towers in New York to share its office space.
At a morning meeting, the head of security told stories of why some of those present were alive. All the stories were about the "little" things.
Well, the head of the company survived that day because his son had started kindergarten. Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring doughnuts to work.
One woman was late because her alarm click didn't go off. Another had been stuck at a turnpike because of an accident.
One of them missed his bus. One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change. One's car couldn't start. One went back to answer the telephone. One had a child who dawdled and didn't get ready as fast as he should have. One couldn't get a taxi.
The most striking story was that of the man who had put on a new pair of shoes that morning before setting off for his office. But before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot and stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. And he lived to tell about it.
Nowadays, whenever I am stuck in traffic, or miss the bus, or have to turn back to answer a ringing telephone - you know, all the little things that used to annoy me - I tell myself this is exactly where God wants me to be at that very moment.
When your morning seems to be going wrong, when the children are slow getting dressed, when you can't seem to find the car keys, or when every traffic light along your route is red, don't get mad or frustrated. Remember - someone is watching over you.
Sent in to Starmag by K.K. Tan
At a morning meeting, the head of security told stories of why some of those present were alive. All the stories were about the "little" things.
Well, the head of the company survived that day because his son had started kindergarten. Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring doughnuts to work.
One woman was late because her alarm click didn't go off. Another had been stuck at a turnpike because of an accident.
One of them missed his bus. One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change. One's car couldn't start. One went back to answer the telephone. One had a child who dawdled and didn't get ready as fast as he should have. One couldn't get a taxi.
The most striking story was that of the man who had put on a new pair of shoes that morning before setting off for his office. But before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot and stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. And he lived to tell about it.
Nowadays, whenever I am stuck in traffic, or miss the bus, or have to turn back to answer a ringing telephone - you know, all the little things that used to annoy me - I tell myself this is exactly where God wants me to be at that very moment.
When your morning seems to be going wrong, when the children are slow getting dressed, when you can't seem to find the car keys, or when every traffic light along your route is red, don't get mad or frustrated. Remember - someone is watching over you.
Sent in to Starmag by K.K. Tan
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Tears for a Brother
I was born in a secluded mountain village. Day-by-day my parents ploughed the dry, yellow soil with their backs to the sky. I have one younger brother.
Once, to buy a handkerchief which all the girls around me seemed to have, I stole 50 cents from my father's drawer. He found out right away and made my brother and me kneel against the wall as he held a bamboo stick in his hand.
"Who stole the money?" I was too stunned to speak up. Father said: "Fine, if nobody wants to admit to the theft, both of you will be beaten!"
He lifted the bamboo stick ... Suddenly, my brother gripped his hand and said, "I did it!" The long stick hit my brother's back with a thud. Father was so angry he kept hitting brother until he lost his breath. After that, he sat down on the stone bed and shouted: "You have learnt to steal from your own house now. What other shameless things will you do in future? You should be beaten to death!"
That night, mother and I hugged my brother. His back was swollen, but he didn't shed a single tear. In the middle of the night, all of sudden, I cried out. My brother covered my mouth with his little hand and said, "Sis, don't cry. It's over."
Years have passed but the incident remains fresh in my mind. I still hate myself for not having the courage to admit to the theft. I cannot forget my brother's expression as he spoke up to protect me. That year, he was eight years old and I, 11.
When my brother was in his last year of his Lower Secondary, he was offered a place in an Upper Secondary school in town. At the same time, I was accepted into a province university. That evening, father squatted in the yard, smoking continuously. I could hear him say, "Both our children have very good results."
Mother sighed. "What's the use? How could we possibly finance both of them?" Just then, my brother walked up and said, :Father, I don't want to continue my studies any more. I've had enough of books."
Father swung his hand across brother's face. "Why do you had such weak spirit? Even if I have to beg for money on the streets, I will send the tow of you to school until you complete your education."
Late in the night, I placed my soft hand on my brother's swollen face and said, "A boy has to continue with his studies. If not, he won't be able to leave this life of poverty." On my part, I had decided not to accept the university offer.
But before dawn the next day, my brother left home with a few pieces of worn-out clothing and a handful of dry beans. He left a note on my pillow: "Sis, getting into a university is not easy. I will find a job and send money home.:
I held the note as I sat on my bed and sobbed until I lost my voice. That year, my brother was 17 and I was 20. With whatever father managed to borrow from the whole village, and the money my brother earned from carrying cement at a construction site, I entered university.
One day, during my third year, a roommate said, "There was a villager waiting for you outside." It was my brother. His whole body was covered in dust, cement and sand. I asked why he didn't tell my roommates who he was.
"Look at me. Wouldn't they laugh at you if I told them that?" Tears filled my eyes as I brushed the dust from his body. He then took out a butterfly hair clip from his pocket and fixed it on my hair. "I saw all the girls in town wearing this, and I thought you should have one."
I pulled my brother into my arms and cried. That year, he was 20 and I was 23.
The first time I took my boyfriend home, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced and the whole house looked clean. After he left, I danced around Mother. "You needn't have spent so much time cleaning the house!" I told her. "Your brother came home early to do it," she said. "He cut his hand while replacing the pane."
I went into my brother's small bedroom. As I looked at his thin face, I felt a hundred needles pricking my heart. I applied some ointment on his wound and bandaged it.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't. You know, when I was at the construction site, stones fell on my feet all the time. Even that could not stop me from working and ..."
He stopped in mid sentence. I turned my back to him as tears rolled down my face. That year, he was 23 and I 26.
After I married, I lived in the city. Many times, my husband invited my parents to come and live with us, but they declined, saying they would not know what to do if they left the village. My brother sided with their decision. He advised me: "Sis, you just take care of your parents-in-law and I will take care of Mother and Father here."
My husband became the director of his factory. We then hoped my brother would accept the post of manager in the maintenance department. But he insisted on starting out as a reparation worker. One day, my brother was on a ladder repairing a cable when he got electrocuted. At the hospital, I grumbled, "Why did you reject the offer? A manager wouldn't have to do dangerous things and risk serious injury. Look at you now."
With a serious look, brother said: "Think of brother-in-law. He has just been promoted. I am almost uneducated. If I become the manager, what would people say?" My husband's eyes filled with tears as I cried out: "But you lack in education because of me!" "Why talk about the past?" my brother replied as he held my hand. That year, he was 26, and I was 29.
My brother was 30 years old when he married a farm girl from the village. At his wedding reception, the master of ceremony asked him, "Who is the one person you respect and love the most?" Without hesitating, he answered, "My sister." Then he went on to tell a story I could not even remember.
"Our primary school was in a different village. Every day, my sister and I walked for two hours to and from school. One day, I lost one side of my gloves. My sister gave me one of hers. When we got home, her hand was trembling so much she could not even hold her chopsticks. That day, I swore that as long as I lived, I would take care of my sister and be good to her."
Applause filled the room and every guest turned to look at me as I stood up. "In my whole life, the one person I would like to thank most is my brother." And one this happy occasion, in front of everyone, tears rolled down my face once again.
Sent to Starmag by Ong Bee Har
Once, to buy a handkerchief which all the girls around me seemed to have, I stole 50 cents from my father's drawer. He found out right away and made my brother and me kneel against the wall as he held a bamboo stick in his hand.
"Who stole the money?" I was too stunned to speak up. Father said: "Fine, if nobody wants to admit to the theft, both of you will be beaten!"
He lifted the bamboo stick ... Suddenly, my brother gripped his hand and said, "I did it!" The long stick hit my brother's back with a thud. Father was so angry he kept hitting brother until he lost his breath. After that, he sat down on the stone bed and shouted: "You have learnt to steal from your own house now. What other shameless things will you do in future? You should be beaten to death!"
That night, mother and I hugged my brother. His back was swollen, but he didn't shed a single tear. In the middle of the night, all of sudden, I cried out. My brother covered my mouth with his little hand and said, "Sis, don't cry. It's over."
Years have passed but the incident remains fresh in my mind. I still hate myself for not having the courage to admit to the theft. I cannot forget my brother's expression as he spoke up to protect me. That year, he was eight years old and I, 11.
When my brother was in his last year of his Lower Secondary, he was offered a place in an Upper Secondary school in town. At the same time, I was accepted into a province university. That evening, father squatted in the yard, smoking continuously. I could hear him say, "Both our children have very good results."
Mother sighed. "What's the use? How could we possibly finance both of them?" Just then, my brother walked up and said, :Father, I don't want to continue my studies any more. I've had enough of books."
Father swung his hand across brother's face. "Why do you had such weak spirit? Even if I have to beg for money on the streets, I will send the tow of you to school until you complete your education."
Late in the night, I placed my soft hand on my brother's swollen face and said, "A boy has to continue with his studies. If not, he won't be able to leave this life of poverty." On my part, I had decided not to accept the university offer.
But before dawn the next day, my brother left home with a few pieces of worn-out clothing and a handful of dry beans. He left a note on my pillow: "Sis, getting into a university is not easy. I will find a job and send money home.:
I held the note as I sat on my bed and sobbed until I lost my voice. That year, my brother was 17 and I was 20. With whatever father managed to borrow from the whole village, and the money my brother earned from carrying cement at a construction site, I entered university.
One day, during my third year, a roommate said, "There was a villager waiting for you outside." It was my brother. His whole body was covered in dust, cement and sand. I asked why he didn't tell my roommates who he was.
"Look at me. Wouldn't they laugh at you if I told them that?" Tears filled my eyes as I brushed the dust from his body. He then took out a butterfly hair clip from his pocket and fixed it on my hair. "I saw all the girls in town wearing this, and I thought you should have one."
I pulled my brother into my arms and cried. That year, he was 20 and I was 23.
The first time I took my boyfriend home, I noticed that the broken window pane had been replaced and the whole house looked clean. After he left, I danced around Mother. "You needn't have spent so much time cleaning the house!" I told her. "Your brother came home early to do it," she said. "He cut his hand while replacing the pane."
I went into my brother's small bedroom. As I looked at his thin face, I felt a hundred needles pricking my heart. I applied some ointment on his wound and bandaged it.
"Does it hurt?"
"No, it doesn't. You know, when I was at the construction site, stones fell on my feet all the time. Even that could not stop me from working and ..."
He stopped in mid sentence. I turned my back to him as tears rolled down my face. That year, he was 23 and I 26.
After I married, I lived in the city. Many times, my husband invited my parents to come and live with us, but they declined, saying they would not know what to do if they left the village. My brother sided with their decision. He advised me: "Sis, you just take care of your parents-in-law and I will take care of Mother and Father here."
My husband became the director of his factory. We then hoped my brother would accept the post of manager in the maintenance department. But he insisted on starting out as a reparation worker. One day, my brother was on a ladder repairing a cable when he got electrocuted. At the hospital, I grumbled, "Why did you reject the offer? A manager wouldn't have to do dangerous things and risk serious injury. Look at you now."
With a serious look, brother said: "Think of brother-in-law. He has just been promoted. I am almost uneducated. If I become the manager, what would people say?" My husband's eyes filled with tears as I cried out: "But you lack in education because of me!" "Why talk about the past?" my brother replied as he held my hand. That year, he was 26, and I was 29.
My brother was 30 years old when he married a farm girl from the village. At his wedding reception, the master of ceremony asked him, "Who is the one person you respect and love the most?" Without hesitating, he answered, "My sister." Then he went on to tell a story I could not even remember.
"Our primary school was in a different village. Every day, my sister and I walked for two hours to and from school. One day, I lost one side of my gloves. My sister gave me one of hers. When we got home, her hand was trembling so much she could not even hold her chopsticks. That day, I swore that as long as I lived, I would take care of my sister and be good to her."
Applause filled the room and every guest turned to look at me as I stood up. "In my whole life, the one person I would like to thank most is my brother." And one this happy occasion, in front of everyone, tears rolled down my face once again.
Sent to Starmag by Ong Bee Har
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
'Blind' Devotion
The passengers in the bus watched sympathetically as the attractive young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and, using her hands to feel her way down the aisle, found the seat he'd told her was empty. Then she settled in, placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg.
It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to a medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.
Mark was an army officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.
Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job. But how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.
At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, he realised the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he told himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react?
Just as he had feared, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again.
"I'm blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me," Mark's heart broke to hear those words, but he knew what had to be done. He promised Susan that each morning and evening, he would ride the bus with her, for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.
And that was exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus driver who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.
Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus-riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, patience and love. She said good-bye and, for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.
On Friday morning, Susan took the bus as usual. As she was about to get off, the bus driver said: "Boy, I sure do envy you." Susan wasn't sure if he was speaking to her. After all, who on earth would envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage to live for the past year?
Curious, she asked him, "Why do you say that you envy me?"
"It must feel good to be taken care of and protected like you are."
Susan had no idea what he was talking about, and asked again, "What do you mean?"
The driver answered: "You know, every morning for the past week, a fine-looking gentleman in military uniform has been standing across the corner, watching you as you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and waits until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."
Although Susan couldn't see Mark, she had always felt his presence. She realised he had given her a gift she didn't need to see to believe; the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.
Sent in to Starmag by Abner Francis
It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to a medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self-pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.
Mark was an army officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.
Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job. But how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.
At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, he realised the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he told himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry. How would she react?
Just as he had feared, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again.
"I'm blind!" she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me," Mark's heart broke to hear those words, but he knew what had to be done. He promised Susan that each morning and evening, he would ride the bus with her, for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.
And that was exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was and how to adapt to her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus driver who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.
Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus-riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, patience and love. She said good-bye and, for the first time, they went their separate ways. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday ... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.
On Friday morning, Susan took the bus as usual. As she was about to get off, the bus driver said: "Boy, I sure do envy you." Susan wasn't sure if he was speaking to her. After all, who on earth would envy a blind woman who had struggled just to find the courage to live for the past year?
Curious, she asked him, "Why do you say that you envy me?"
"It must feel good to be taken care of and protected like you are."
Susan had no idea what he was talking about, and asked again, "What do you mean?"
The driver answered: "You know, every morning for the past week, a fine-looking gentleman in military uniform has been standing across the corner, watching you as you get off the bus. He makes sure you cross the street safely and waits until you enter your office building. Then he blows you a kiss, gives you a little salute and walks away. You are one lucky lady."
Although Susan couldn't see Mark, she had always felt his presence. She realised he had given her a gift she didn't need to see to believe; the gift of love that can bring light where there is darkness.
Sent in to Starmag by Abner Francis
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