I've never had anyone die on me before. Give up, yes, but not dying.
His funeral will be my first mourning.
Smoke, ashes, memory.
I haven't cried this hard for the longest time.
I wish funerals wouldn't be this difficult.
At the top shelf of my dressing table lies a pen knife. It was the first and last gift from him to me.
I wonder if the airport staff would allow me to carry it by hand to his mourning.
I guess not.
I know deep down in my heart he still remembers me as I mimicked an aeroplane landing with my right hand and telling him in Cantonese that we flew from KL to see him.
Two weeks ago after I visited him, I told myself I'd try to fly more often; two months once. I guess someone up there disagreed with me.
I wonder if that someone has been digging deep in my thoughts, and following my dreams about him.
I'm sorry I wasn't there.
[music for the soul: death - white lies]