Posted in death, Feelings, Life, Love, Poem, Truth

A Granddaughter’s Letter

Like tight knit clothing weaved together, you and Tay were the reason why Mother would always go back.

I could not understand why we should not skip summer visits over trainings, over work, over seminars.

Maybe it was because of the gratitude.

Maybe it was because of the emptiness.

Maybe it was Mother missing you over and over again like how I miss Mom whenever I’m away.

But now I understand why summer nights are spent in your home.

The home where you molded five strong women and a loving man.

The home where light is always available and the red string that I heard from some series actually made sense to me.

It made sense.


You were art.

Etched deep into your skin were stories of rebirth and wars.

You were born a few years after the first world war erupted.

You witnessed the devastating second world war.

A young maiden.

Who should have witnessed something greater.

Greater than bloody men.

Greater than wars.

But maybe it did.

It made you greater for the stories that your shared to us.

Over and over again.

Year after year.

We listened to fear.

We listened to happiness.

We listened to daring adventures.

Of hiding.

Of finding solace.

We listened to every moment.

Year after year.

We didn’t mind visiting the place where the present technologies are not working.

We didn’t mind because at different parts of the places where we stayed.

We brought stories.

Stories of rebirth.

Stories of wars.

Stories of death.

You’d be missed La’

You’d be missed.




A dose of failures, a couple of heartaches, a dozen of everlasting memories, a hundred of survival diaries, a thousand of beautiful moments worth capturing all in one undying international art — writing. This feature every bits and pieces of my life (not that vain though). Whether it’s to wear a dress or wear jammies, to write a sentence or to write a poem, to challenge negative beliefs or to debate my beliefs, to momentarily travel or to stay at home, to crave spicy foods or to just eat plain vanilla ice cream. Whatever spectrum I am in, I think I have found my place in this wonderful world. Valete!

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