First Christmas

The wind giving me a breezy hello--

Then later a cheery Ho-ho-ho.

Yuletide air: fairy lights, fanfare,

Yet I feel melancholy, dread, despair.

Homeward bound soon I shall be.

A void slowly opens within me.

Trunk packed, the presents wrapped--

Funny. I feel the excitement has stopped.

Carols warm the cold night air,

Lights twinkle with a flair:

I shiver though I wear a suit,

My trip to the coffee shop has no fruit.

The bus will be filled with more cargo:

Others' gifts for people I do not know.

How can carols drown the elegy?

No more blue-grey eyes to cheerily greet me.

An Apostrophe for Grandmother

to the woman who told me

of the song of the rain:

 the tap-tap-tap, as it falls

from the grey sky;

and of the sleeping flower

finally waking.

The melody of your humming:

Us both beneath that tree,

The song you were singing—

My first memory.

You never heard but you had listened,

Lovingly, intently through the end.

A child you care for asking for food,

Will blurt it out; you understood.

Now you’re asleep, quiet, at peace—

Surprising all, as we ponder this.

The song had stopped, so did the humming.

A pining, a void, opened before long.

I won’t despair—you’re in God’s hands,

Humming your song with angelic bands.

I say my thanks and my good-night.

Night-night Grandmother. Sleep you tight.

Perspective

(Photo taken from the Facebook account of my cousin Mike)

Let me be like you: the child-like calm

On your lovely face. Your little palm

Open to raindrops, your pink tongue out

For candy bars that Mommy sings about.

I have learned to despise the rainfall,

Because it’s a hindrance, after all.

My shoes get drenched, my body cold

Umbrella sways despite my firm hold.

I look at you, and I’m hit hard. Squarely.

I mope, whereas you are perfectly happy.

A smile lights up your eyes; your face is split,

Whereas I’m at the end of my wits.

I take a leaf from your book, little one.

Henceforth I will do as you have done.

When the rain comes to my life again,

I will welcome it with my arms open.

 

When blue skies turn to grey,

When I wake up to a rainy day,

Help me not to languish, mope or pout—

Of the fact that I cannot have a nice day out.

Smile, Just Smile

Smile, just smile, little faery,

Light up lives continuously.

Let your laughter turn to melodies,

To sonnets, and odes to drown elegies.

Split your face with a broad smile, faery,

Laugh, bring joy, and all will see—

This life is not all toil, deprived of laughter,

It is not wrong to smile as we work harder.

Laugh your infant’s laugh, wee baby faery,

Let those who hear laugh heartily.

Lift up crestfallen hearts with a musical chuckle,

Make them people laugh till their knees buckle. 

To a Young Lad

You entered this world, little boy,

Bringing smiles and much joy.

The long wait has ended, the thrilled

People had seen their wish fulfilled.

Young as you are, you’re given a test,

When you ought to drink milk and rest.

This early, you’ve a puzzle in your hands,

Greater than what your strength demands.

Of course, I ask the question why too.

I’m unsure how this test will turn for you.

But I do know that you could teach me

A lesson or two. Or even three.

Help me to see you, and to look beyond,

To write of you as I did with a child beforehand.

Let me bond with you through the distance,

I pray you, young lad, give me that chance.

Let words flow when I see your face,

Let me write with the same passion and grace.

Let my adjectives be positive, never to be comparative.

Be one of my Muses, as long as this talent shall live.

Blessed Be Your Name

I first heard Casting Crown’s “Blessed Be Your Name” from the film Soul Surfer. It made me think of Job, though my literary mind was churning in analysis of the song and the film. In the early part, surfer Bethany Hamilton sang along: Blessed be the name of the Lord/ Blessed be Your name. You give and take away/ And I will choose to say/ Blessed be Your name. Bethany soon loses her left arm to a shark, and her world turns upside down. Slowly, she rebuilds her life and rekindles her passion for surfing.

The movie left me thinking of Job and of reality. Job lost everything: riches, friends, health. He suffered the cruelest fate a parent could have when all his children got killed. All these in one day. And then he said, the Lord gave and the Lord took away. The Lord be praised. To parents, kids are everything. Here’s one guy who loses his kids in one blow and he says “Praise the Lord.” I have to admit, that took guts. If one person would lose all today, would he say the same, and mean it at that?

Job and Soul Surfer are stories that teach us about faith, period. Never did I dream of having a personal experience.

***

Friday began as a normal day. I locked my room and went to the library for a book. After a little chat with the librarian, I went back home. Everything looked ordinary. The padlock looked normal—until I inserted my key. It was jammed. I realized the padlock was destroyed and the doorknob was too.

My bed was unmade—and I made it as soon as I woke up. My closet door was open and my clothes were jumbled. The bottom drawer was half-open. My gadgets, cash and books were gone. My room was broken into. I touched nothing else and went to work.

I told the store owner, down at the first floor, of my situation and requested her to call the building administrator. His phone was unattended. So I said I’d be going to the mall—this was the only place with a decent coin-operated payphone.

 I called the cops (sigh); and my parents. As the cops moved along with questions and theories that made my brows rise, I thought, “Oh great. My own Job experience.” I told them about the possibility of an inside job and expressed my doubt on their theory: that only a law student or a criminology student would break in, take my gadgets and my books. Couldn’t the culprit be just a person who knows the value of things? Why is the suspect list narrowed down to students of law and criminology only?

He wrote down the items that were taken, including the titles of my books. My book in Criminal Procedure (Crim Pro for short) was labeled as Cream Pro. I had to bite my tongue and correct him, while thinking, “Thank You Lord, for providing a funny moment at this dark hour.”

By Friday afternoon, other tenants knew something was going on. Three cops had jolted their curiosity. Nobody saw anyone break in nor had they heard the noise of a padlock being destroyed. Other than a sorry statement from an old lady two doors down—she heard banging but dismissed it as a carpentry work—the trail was cold. No suspects, no leads.

  

I answered questions, bit back retorts and suggested interviewing fellow tenants (“Let’s leave that to the investigator. He knows what to do”). I watched the investigator take fingerprints all over my closet door and frown. He did not take mine. I wondered how they’ll proceed. “We’ll take these prints to the lab, see if we find a match.”

Okay. Then what? The trail is cold, you didn’t talk to the tenants or take my fingerprint. What will you do with a truckload of fingerprints?   

At some point, one of the cops started asking questions not related to the crime. What do you think about the RH Law? Don’t you think it’s pro-abortion? Why are cops perceived as anti-human rights? Why is the law pro-accused and very technical?

After what seemed like a fruitless millennium, the cops had left, leaving me with two cousins and a lot of questions. As I packed a bag for a sleepover, my mind was asking me: Can you say Blessed be Your name at this instance?

I categorically say yes. I could say Blessed be Your name despite losing my gadgets and files and books. On the bad side, they cost a fortune. I incurred an absence from school. On the good side, I was not home at the time of the theft, though the blotter officer said it was “rubbery with force entry”.  When he wrote that on his notebook, I thought, “Laugh trip part two.”

Could have been worse. At least I was not caught in the middle of the gunfire. So yes. I could still say Blessed be Your Name, despite losing everything.

A Birthday Poem

Your natal day is here,
I greet it with much cheer;
A quiet prayer to top it off:
A prayer that you'd be held aloft.

The lyrics of thanks, the sonnet of joy--
Another year, a blessing. I am not coy.
Age is wine, so smile with it:
Increasing wisdom and your wit.

Keep that beacon shining bright,
Help people see the light.
Touch more lives from here on out,
Bring joy when you're out and about.

I end this verse so short,
But I know you are a sport.
Dear Godfather, on your natal day,
I raise a toast and shout hooray.

Thoughts on a Sunday Night

When I skate, problem-free,

Life full of smiles, of glee.

I forget to speak with You then,

I put away paper and pen.

But when I go through humps

And I go through painful bumps,

A desperate cry echoes through the walls,

Frantic for someone to hear my calls.

You respond faster than the emergency hotline,

You croon, and soothe and tell me to hush,

To calm down and have no rush.

When I get worked up I snap at You,

To tell me what I’m having all this for—

Headaches that split my head in two,

And pounding for a minute or more.

But then I realize, it is but a reminder

That as I journey on, go father,

To never forget, and to stay grounded,

And to say words You long for when I see red.

I know You already know the words before

I speak to get them out. But, for

Everything they are worth, I gotta tell You:

Hear my plea, I need You.

My head and eyes are my limits, and I am

Frustrated to have to deal with this bedlam.

If it were me I’d like to be free, but You

Have other plans, though I have no clue.

So I’d jump in on this with both my feet,

I trust You enough for this gargantuan feat.

You know what to do, so I let you drive,

I’m in the passenger’s seat. I count to five.

I will always look to You, never forget You’re there—

You accompany me if I go anywhere.

Even if You know this, I’d like to tell You:

Lord, hear my plea: I need You.

A Letter to His Majesty

You could've lived a Kingly life, Royal One,
Yet you lived among us, a common man.
You made friends, as well as enemies
You loved them both without prejudice,
Like a truest friend, a gift so rare,
You took a beating in, not on a dare.
You could've said no with Your Kingly voice,
But You instead made a choice
Your royal status completely tossed
A friendly gift with so much cost.
You gladly walked the road of pain,
So my life I would gain.
A bang of the hammer four times rang out,
Ignominy was high for those with clout.
But You endured all, the insult and injury,
With Your blood pouring free.
I thank You now for the gift of love,
For handling me with a kid glove.
And when the nightingale Your song will sing,
I'll think of You, my Friend and King.

The Baby in the Blue Blanket

Story time at home offered a vast menu. There was the usual storybook, Irish myths, stories of my parents’ childhood, or tales that came straight from Da’s head. There was a schedule about the venue. Monday would be in my bedroom. Tuesday would be at Don’s; Wednesday at Jim’s. Then mine again on Thursday.

On that night, Don and I were snuggled on the bed with Da between us. It was his turn to tell a story. Jim plonked himself on my easy chair. Though my brothers considered bedtime tales soppy by then—Jim was 13 and Don was 10—they couldn't resist the inviting tone of our father’s voice. He is a gifted storyteller who could capture the attention of people in whatever age.

_____________

Once upon a time, there lived a family in a Dublin suburb. The father and mother had two little lads. They wanted another baby, so that the lads will have a sister to care for and play with. And they would have another child to love. But the doctor said that the mother cannot have babies anymore.

Incidentally, a tiny baby in an orphanage had no family. The lady who took care of her wanted the baby to have a da and mammy, just like any other child. When the family in the suburb heard that, they prayed hard.

“Was it long before they got the baby?” I ask.

“Not too long,” my father replies, “the baby lived with the family when she was three months old. Like this,” he demonstrates with his hands how little the baby was.

“The lads helped their parents buy clothes for the baby. Right, Da?” pipes in Jim.

“And a baby blanket too?” asks Don.

“Yes. It was blue.”

“Why was it blue? My teacher said it is for lads,” I say.

My father chuckles at my love for details. "You're like your mammy," he says.

“It doesn't really matter, love,” explains Mam. “When the family got things for the baby, everyone helped. The da painted her room. The mammy bought bottles and shoes. The little lads helped choose clothes. And one lad chose a lovely blue blanket.”

Da goes on, “The brothers kissed her before they went to school and when they got back. The family loved the new baby very much. The mammy would read to her. 

"Does she know about Oisin and Tir Na nOg?”

“Tomorrow,” my father would say with a wink. Then he would sing me to sleep.

The baby was the only thing I could think of for several days. As I come home from school to cookies and milk, I’d try to worm it out of my mother.

“It’s your da’s story, my love,” she would say, “let him tell it, do you think?”

She would tell me instead another story and keep me company in the kitchen. And I’d tell her about school. My brothers would join us later then it was off to play then homework. I would look forward to bedtime with more excitement than I ever did. My brothers would be in my room during my bedtime.

“Does the da sing to the baby and the lads?” Don asks.

“Yes,” says Jim. “I think he sings ‘For Baby’ for the little baby and reads Oisin McFinn to the lads.”

“How do ya know?” Don demands.

“Oh, I know. I just do,” says Jim with the air of a wise older brother.

Mam enters with glasses of milk and sits beside Jim.

“What can you say about the baby, mammy?” I ask.

“She has beautiful brown eyes and a beautiful smile. And her da and mam were very happy when she arrived. It was one of the best days."

"How about the lads?" I ask.

Mam thinks. "When the eldest was seven, he carried his baby sister to his room. He loved having her there. He would tell her about his school and what he wanted to be when he grew up. The younger lad loved to see her drink milk. He tickles her toes when she drinks milk. Now why don’t you let da continue?”

“The baby is already eight years old,” says my father. “Her favorite colour is blue, and she loves to read. She’s here, in Dublin. She loves to listen to her da tell stories.”

Mam adds, “She loves to stay in the bench in the yard, just like her mam. And she enjoys watching her brothers draw and play the guitar.”

“Just like me!”

“Yes. Just like you.” A knowing wink is given to Mam, who smiles as if she knew something I didn't.

As the story progressed each night, I noticed that the baby and I had things in common. Two brothers and a lullaby. Same hobby and favourite colour. We both loved adventure books and Irish myths.

“What does the baby do now? Does she eat ice cream too?” I ask, curiosity peaked.

My mother nods. “Cookies n cream is her favourite.”

“Me too!”

"Yes, like you, my wee love."

“Does she know that her ma and da are not her ma and da?” I ask, wondering if that child knew her story.

“One day, she will,” my mother says as Da plants a kiss on my head. “And I hope that right now she knows that her da and ma and brothers love her so much.”

“Even if she didn’t come from the mammy’s tummy?” I wonder.

“Yes. Because what matters is that the mammy and daddy love her. And her brothers have the sister they want so much,” Mam says.

I couldn’t hold the suspense. “Where is she now, Da?”

My father’s blue eyes find mine. “She’s right here in my arms.”

I suddenly put the pieces together. I realize that the baby and I had things in common, because I am the baby. So that is how I came to the family. That is how I was told of my adoption. Though I didn't know the word itself at that time, my parents guided me to the truth—as always—with creativity and a gentle hand.

My brothers and I closed our eyes that night engulfed in our blankets, listening to our da’s song. And I am sure, my face was split by a smile.

Twelve years later, I find solace in that story. Every time I think about it, I smile. My family’s nature and nurture is where I flourished. People might define me as an adoptee, Asian, Chinese, or Korean. It doesn't bother me. At the end of the day, only one thing defines me. I am my parents’ child. I came from their heart.