Stitches

I guess this is caused by aging, because I can't figure out my fondest memory with my dad. My cloudy brain is playing on me, but I have this vivid memory that I can't shake it off.

I was a primary school kid, probably when I was 8 or 9 years old. My mother's family had this tradition of gathering together in our summer home called Salim. Every Chinese New Year, my family and I returned to my parents' hometown in Sibu, Sarawak, Malaysia. That time of year always got me bursting with excitement that I couldn't wait to kick my school's butt off for a week or so. I got so tired of those mean Chinese boys calling me names and shooting me with arrows of hatred and discouragement. I remembered boarding a plane with a big smile on my small face.

Like my cousins, I was looking forward to a night when we get to play with firecrackers. Surprisingly, it was not illegal for the neighbourhoods in Sibu to be electrified by a storm of rainbow sparks. I loved that lively atmosphere when almost all balconies of houses were overtook by boxes of little balls that exploded and popped like soda or countless bundles of bamboo sticks with a flame lit on the tips that melted down like heated ice cream. There were some brave families who bought big tubes of explosive content to make fireworks. Real ones. The safety rule was to run far away from the fizzing fire before the tubes shot sparks in the air and boomed into huge aerial flowers. To my horror, the rule was broken...that night.

I couldn't remember how many were frolicking at the entrance of the mansion, but we were having a blast. All I saw were bright, sharp twirlings of bamboo sticks with fizzing sparks on each top. When the sparks reached to the bottom of the sticks, we had to drop them down to the road so that the spark could be extinguished. Dad volunteered to release fireworks with a few uncles. I peeked from a small cluster of orange stars that fizzed in front of me. The group walked to a distance from us and arranged bundles of firework equipment in a circle. With one whip of a fire match, an uncle lit on top of the material bunch and there was a loud whistle...followed by a silence. It wasn't an ordinary silence. I couldn't quite see what happened because the darkness of the night blinded my vision.

And the next thing I remembered, I was sitting on a bench of the porch. My mom told me that Dad was injured. Chills crawled to my spine as I held my breath. My eyes locked straight ahead as two uncles helped my dad to sit on the bench opposite my mother and I. I felt like watching a live screening of a serial killer scene. His head was covered in crimson fluid. I wanted to scream, but I was too scared to say a word. He was shortly sent to the nearest hospital. My mom took me into the house and straight to a bedroom where my family stayed over for the night. "Go take a shower and get changed, Michele." Mom ordered. "What about Papa?" I asked. My heart was beating wildly as I wanted to dart back to the porch so that I can follow my dad to the hospital. "He'll be fine, don't worry." Mom replied. I hated being a bad girl, so I obeyed her. I even couldn't sleep well that night. The fluorescent lamp outside the room was still bright like an angel's radiance. It shone through the half-closed curtains of the window. All I could think while staring at that light was Dad.

The next day, I was slurping my favourite noodles called Kam Pua. It was a popular Foochow dish and funny that, it was available in hawker stalls of Sibu. At a corner of my eye, Dad approached through the opened doors of the living room. He greeted me with a small smile. As I looked up, the top of his head was in stitches (I couldn't remember the exact number) and was protected by a big bandage. He said that he was okay, his head would be healed in a few weeks..or was it months?

The bloody paint all over his head that night haunted me at times, but I reminded myself that Dad was saved by God. Thank the Lord that he had blessed Dad's life.From that day onward, I tried not to play with firecrackers too much and I've never saw Dad going near to the firework tubes ever since.

Staying Till Evening

It's funny that I have one or two flashbub memories of my days in kindergarten, like the time when I swallowed a hard round candy and I choked hard while walking down the stairs with a line of kids. I panicked a little, but I squeezed my throat to push the candy up to my mouth. I think no one noticed it.

One thing that stuck in my head is when I stayed back in Tze Yu Kindergarten school for the first time. I was 5 or 6 years old and I was surprised when my Mom got off her white car one afternoon. I thought I was to get into the car while suddenly one of my teachers caught me by my right shoulder. My mom handed her a bag of clothes. Question marks floated in my head and I didn't pay attention to the adults talking, for I was too psyched to get back home. Mom then told me to get out of the car and follow the teacher back into the school.

Tears trickled from my eyes. I watched helplessly as Mom drove off. The teacher in a red and white uniform shirt and a matching skirt led me to the classroom where lunch was served. A number of kids were already in their casual clothes; they were sitting at desks like trained dogs. The teacher gently told me to change into the clothes Mom brought for me. Still hiccuping, I took the bag from the teacher's hands and went to nearest washroom.

I continually cried, even during lunch time and nap time. I remember that I didn't finish the food on the blue tray. The veggies and the fish that laid before me made me miss Mom's cooking. I wished I can steal my teacher's Nokia phone and call Mom to pick me up so that I can gobble up her homemade fish fillets and gulp up her chicken soup.

During nap period, I was the only sobbing brat in the gigantic hall. The other kids were already snuggled up in thin, towel-like blankets. My teacher wore a smile as she tucked me in. The mattress was a little hard, but I still couldn't stop thinking of seeing my mother. "Look at your classmates, Michele! They're not crying." she said, gesturing one hand at the kids surrounding me who were sleeping like logs. More like angels. "Close your eyes and your mother will come, okay?" she whispered to my ear. The crying that seemed to last about an hour or so suddenly diminished. I let out a yawn and slowly dozed off. From that day onwards, I began to adapt in the after school schedule of eating lunch and napping.

Chapter 2: Dream or Real?

It is weird that my sister Megan and I have this memory. It looks like a dream, but we can remember it.

I was 5 or 6 years old when it happened. It was a warm Sunday morning. Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, chatting. My brother, Manuel, was one year younger than me. 3-years old Megan was with us too. I couldn't remember how the three of us got into Mom's white car. It wasn't actually our car. One of my uncles (or was it my grandfather) had owned this small, manual mobile for many years. It wasn't surprising that it still ran smooth.

The only moment I can recall is when action crashed in. Megan pressed the accelerator with two chubby hands. Manuel was sitting beside me, and I ended up stirring the wheel. You wouldn't believe this, but it's true. Megan and I bring this memory back quite a few times, and we remember the car rolling off the white iron gates, down the steep slope, turned left, and down the hill. I also can picture Mom's shrill scream from the back. I swiveled my head, and a woman with a face as white as an A4 paper waving her arms like spaghetti as she chased after the car. As I think about it, it looks scary. But in my child perspective, I would thought of this as an exciting adventure.

Mom must have left her keys in the ignition that caused us to start the engine and go crazy. Imagine three naughty children (well, two actually, Manuel had no idea that he was involved) drove our only car down the uneven road of the neighbourhood.

Megan and I tell Mom that this memory is real. But she keeps shaking her head, saying that she can't remember anything about it. It might have been a false memory, something a human brain can do to trick a human. But as far as I can picture, I have a feeling that this incident...feels real.

Before You Scroll Down...

I just want to say thank you for dropping by. My name is Michele Hii and I'm an aspiring writer. I have two blogs on Blogspot.com ("Life of A Writer" and "The Magic Mimosa Plant") and one blog on Wordpress.com that is left hanging (it's called Aspiring Lines and I'll get it active again someday this summer). You might ask me "Whoa, that's a lot of blogs. Why you're creating this fourth blog?" Well, you see, I have this dream of sharing my life with other people. I've taken four creative writing classes in Douglas College in BC, Canada, and my favourites among the classes are Personal Narrative and Memoir Writing. I just love to write about my past experiences and I love experimenting with story structures (linear timeline forms are my favourite), plus poetic phrases. Since I've shared a fair amount of my life stories with colleagues in two semesters, I decided to work on my first memoir. So this blog is all about my memoir. I'll post in-progress chapters here, and I'll find time to edit and rewrite before transforming these stories into a book.

But before we begin, I would like to share a little bit on what my memoir is all about. Towards the Sunset, Beneath the Snow is about a series of memories I can remember from my toddler years to my migration with my family to Canada. It's a basically a journey about how God has arranged all different kinds of people for me to meet, the experiences, for me to suffer and smile, as well as how I discover my passion in writing poetry and stories. I choose this title because I combine a sunset from Malaysia and snow from Canada into one picture to tell my readers that two worlds can connect into one big influence in my life.

List of Chapters
I'll post the chapter list later...