On my father's 66th birthday

I've been working on my nanowrimo (national novel writing month) project - of the coming of age of a 13 year old girl. Once again, my reach seems to be exceeding my grasp, but no matter, I must press on.

Was locked out of the house today (Where the fuck did i put my keys? Still can't be found, and now Ma wants to change all the locks. Urgh.) So I loitered about and finally decided to go to the kopitiam and manually write bits of my novel.

All throughout the day, at various points, I remembered that if Daddy was alive, he would be 66 today.

At the kopitiam, I wrote this :

' The Chinatown open air market was a lot quieter than what I had expected. My most vivid memory of it was the Chinese New Year’s Eve when I was in Primary Two, when Daddy had brought Ma and me to the market after our reunion dinner. It had been so crowded that everyone could hardly move. I was holding on to Daddy’s shirt in front, Ma ‘s hands were on my shoulders, masses of bodies around our little family train. Then - I remember the exact moment Daddy lifted me onto his shoulders and suddenly I could see everything – a sea of bobbing black heads, a million red and gold lights from all good things, streamers and bakkwa and cushion covers and angbaos; and Daddy holding Ma’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd. I guess I had expected the market to always be that magical. But as Ma and I trudged past lethargic stallholders and endlessly repetitive decorations limp from the afternoon heat, I felt disappointed and increasingly irritated.'

It's made up. Not a real memory. But I kept trying to remember if there had been a moment like that for me, for us. I couldn't remember.

Did I make it up because I want to idealise my memories of him? The 13 year-old part of me probably does. But the adult part of me is scared that I remember wrongly, that I'm so continually irritated with Ma because of this wrong remembering, these unfair comparisons.

I wanted to cry when I wrote 'and Daddy holding Ma’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost in the crowd'. Maybe because I don't recall him holding her hand. Maybe because I feel more sorry about Ma than daddy, even though it's his birthday today. Maybe because so often, I feel that Ma is lost in the crowd, and I don't know how to lead her, or I don't bother to.

I'm sorry Ma.

I've been daydreaming about the dedication at the front of the book, if it ever gets published. One of the dedications will be : To my daddy, Roosevelt. Someday I'll get to tell you all the things I never said.

I haven't figured what my dedication to Ma will be.