Dear Engkong,
There were many precious moments we shared together. You took Lucky and I out for shopping trips to Cirebon Mall. We would have dinner at KFC, the one thing a 7-year-old would look forward to because getting finger-licking delicious junk food was a privilege. Later on, when we got ice cream from Swensen's, you would order banana split, which I thought didn't taste as good as my one scoop of vanilla ice cream. I also remember going to Mickey Mouse Boutique Store with you and Irene. I was captivated by this glossy red long-sleeved top with Mickey Mouse motif. The price tag of Rp. 50,000 was a little too steep for a penny pincher little Mel, but you kept encouraging me not to worry about it and got it for me. Guilt of making you pay too much just for a top I probably would grow out of crept in for the next few weeks, but I wore the same top for our annual Christmas dinner in Marina Restaurant for the next 2 years. Little Mel usually dressed her best during this annual dinner.
I remember sitting next to you while you're guarding the cashier post in our store. When mom was elsewhere, you would gesture to the drink seller in front of our store to open up 2 bottles of Coca Cola for both yourself and I. Again, this was the next best thing I looked forward to, sneaking behind mom's back for the prized thirst-quencher soda. You would put your index finger over your mouth to let me know that this was a secret between us, which I gladly wouldn't mind keeping. Often times, you'd bring sweet and sour candies, Nano-Nano or coffee-flavored ones, Kopiko and offered me one. This candy giving tradition went on till recently, when you still had the strength to look after the store. Even though I didn't feel like having one, I would still have it, knowing that you wanted a partner in crime for candy eating.
The last day of my visit to Cirebon before I left for Singapore was always eventful. You would whisper to me after dinner to go to your room. There, you would give me a red packet with a handsome sum of Singapore dollars. You would tell me that you loved me, that the money could be used for my allowance if I needed to buy anything, that I ought to study hard. I would put the money in the bank and let it grow. This money ended up to be useful to be spent for my Beijing, Thailand, and Japan trips.
As you aged gracefully, all your counter mates passed away one by one. Many of your nephews died while they're in their late 50s and 60s and there were no surviving siblings of yours except for a sister and a sister-in-law whom you didn't get along with. It must be tough for you. I remember your extroverted self leaving the store in the afternoon to walk to your older sister's place for a quick chat when she was still alive. Now that she's gone, you had no one to turn to, at least an older person whom you could seek counsel from.
Burdened by the economic hardship of your children, you then tried to help my aunt and uncles by using the store's money. It was probably the noblest thing a father could do, but you didn't realize that the store was our main source of income. For the next 15 years, your relationship with my parents went from "warm and fuzzy" to "we couldn't stand each other, but we had no choice." It's awkward to be the middle person, but your relationship with me continued to stay strong. By now, you would share about your difficult childhood, how your dad would beat you up if you didn't get up early, how you were looked down upon when you're newly married simply because you didn't own a jewelry store, how you'd assure your wife that everything would be fine even though you had little money and 4 kids to feed. After little prodding, you would also share how my parents met. You were worried that dad had been single since he broke up with a dentist wanna-be 4 years before. He's now 28, motherless, and worked too hard in the store without any wife prospect. So you started asking around. The jewelry business circle in Indonesia was not big. Somebody told you about a family in Bandung who had 2 unmarried daughters. You pretended to buy jewelry at mom's store and ended up reeling dad to drop by her store to woo her. Long story short, they got married a year later.
When I realized that your memory retrieval function didn't work as well anymore, I would initiate a guessing game of your grandchildren's names. It sometimes frustrated you, but I didn't push too hard and we would have a laugh together. Over time, when your speech slurred and you started speaking your native Hokkien dialect, I tried interpreting as much as I could and replied to you in Chinese. We still looked after the store together. I would get you steamed glutinous rice cake with banana (kue lapis), while I opted for spicy combro or buras for breakfast. The secondary cashier girl would tell me that you didn't come to the store anymore due to ill health, but whenever I came home, you would ensure that you would make it even if it was just a couple of hours. I felt honored. I would be close to tears when you mentioned how you're now unworthy in the eyes of your children. I told him that's not how my parents felt. We would eat quietly on your desk table in your room. Just like old times sake, you would quietly pass your steamed chicken or veggies onto my plate.
During my second last visit to Cirebon, your spirit was already low and you kept telling me it'd be better if you left the world. After slow progress of getting you to walk around the house, I finally got you to walk out on the pedestrian walkway! We ended up visiting your nephews' jewelry stores, each time talking about the wonderful past. By the time you were at your favorite nephew's store, our extended relatives saw your walking gig and came to say hi to you. I did believe that you felt you had companionship on that day, just like the olden times when you used to go to your older sister's place for a quick chat.
Engkong, thank you for your love and your generosity. I'm truly blessed to be your closest grandchild. You're always in my heart. May you rest in peace and I will always love you.
Love,
Icha
There were many precious moments we shared together. You took Lucky and I out for shopping trips to Cirebon Mall. We would have dinner at KFC, the one thing a 7-year-old would look forward to because getting finger-licking delicious junk food was a privilege. Later on, when we got ice cream from Swensen's, you would order banana split, which I thought didn't taste as good as my one scoop of vanilla ice cream. I also remember going to Mickey Mouse Boutique Store with you and Irene. I was captivated by this glossy red long-sleeved top with Mickey Mouse motif. The price tag of Rp. 50,000 was a little too steep for a penny pincher little Mel, but you kept encouraging me not to worry about it and got it for me. Guilt of making you pay too much just for a top I probably would grow out of crept in for the next few weeks, but I wore the same top for our annual Christmas dinner in Marina Restaurant for the next 2 years. Little Mel usually dressed her best during this annual dinner.
I remember sitting next to you while you're guarding the cashier post in our store. When mom was elsewhere, you would gesture to the drink seller in front of our store to open up 2 bottles of Coca Cola for both yourself and I. Again, this was the next best thing I looked forward to, sneaking behind mom's back for the prized thirst-quencher soda. You would put your index finger over your mouth to let me know that this was a secret between us, which I gladly wouldn't mind keeping. Often times, you'd bring sweet and sour candies, Nano-Nano or coffee-flavored ones, Kopiko and offered me one. This candy giving tradition went on till recently, when you still had the strength to look after the store. Even though I didn't feel like having one, I would still have it, knowing that you wanted a partner in crime for candy eating.
The last day of my visit to Cirebon before I left for Singapore was always eventful. You would whisper to me after dinner to go to your room. There, you would give me a red packet with a handsome sum of Singapore dollars. You would tell me that you loved me, that the money could be used for my allowance if I needed to buy anything, that I ought to study hard. I would put the money in the bank and let it grow. This money ended up to be useful to be spent for my Beijing, Thailand, and Japan trips.
As you aged gracefully, all your counter mates passed away one by one. Many of your nephews died while they're in their late 50s and 60s and there were no surviving siblings of yours except for a sister and a sister-in-law whom you didn't get along with. It must be tough for you. I remember your extroverted self leaving the store in the afternoon to walk to your older sister's place for a quick chat when she was still alive. Now that she's gone, you had no one to turn to, at least an older person whom you could seek counsel from.
Burdened by the economic hardship of your children, you then tried to help my aunt and uncles by using the store's money. It was probably the noblest thing a father could do, but you didn't realize that the store was our main source of income. For the next 15 years, your relationship with my parents went from "warm and fuzzy" to "we couldn't stand each other, but we had no choice." It's awkward to be the middle person, but your relationship with me continued to stay strong. By now, you would share about your difficult childhood, how your dad would beat you up if you didn't get up early, how you were looked down upon when you're newly married simply because you didn't own a jewelry store, how you'd assure your wife that everything would be fine even though you had little money and 4 kids to feed. After little prodding, you would also share how my parents met. You were worried that dad had been single since he broke up with a dentist wanna-be 4 years before. He's now 28, motherless, and worked too hard in the store without any wife prospect. So you started asking around. The jewelry business circle in Indonesia was not big. Somebody told you about a family in Bandung who had 2 unmarried daughters. You pretended to buy jewelry at mom's store and ended up reeling dad to drop by her store to woo her. Long story short, they got married a year later.
When I realized that your memory retrieval function didn't work as well anymore, I would initiate a guessing game of your grandchildren's names. It sometimes frustrated you, but I didn't push too hard and we would have a laugh together. Over time, when your speech slurred and you started speaking your native Hokkien dialect, I tried interpreting as much as I could and replied to you in Chinese. We still looked after the store together. I would get you steamed glutinous rice cake with banana (kue lapis), while I opted for spicy combro or buras for breakfast. The secondary cashier girl would tell me that you didn't come to the store anymore due to ill health, but whenever I came home, you would ensure that you would make it even if it was just a couple of hours. I felt honored. I would be close to tears when you mentioned how you're now unworthy in the eyes of your children. I told him that's not how my parents felt. We would eat quietly on your desk table in your room. Just like old times sake, you would quietly pass your steamed chicken or veggies onto my plate.
During my second last visit to Cirebon, your spirit was already low and you kept telling me it'd be better if you left the world. After slow progress of getting you to walk around the house, I finally got you to walk out on the pedestrian walkway! We ended up visiting your nephews' jewelry stores, each time talking about the wonderful past. By the time you were at your favorite nephew's store, our extended relatives saw your walking gig and came to say hi to you. I did believe that you felt you had companionship on that day, just like the olden times when you used to go to your older sister's place for a quick chat.
Engkong, thank you for your love and your generosity. I'm truly blessed to be your closest grandchild. You're always in my heart. May you rest in peace and I will always love you.
Love,
Icha
