Gone Xi Fa Cai
I remember reunion dinners at Woodleigh Park: all noise, redness and grease. I remember scampering through imaginary adventures in that stale colonial house, eagerly awaiting the countdown; the showers of sparks on the dark grass, the creak of the swing, the sleepy agitation in the ride home.
I remember the greedy ang pow tallies, calculating what toys I could buy; I remember pilfered chocolates in my pockets, endless car rides to somewhere and nowhere, word games with my brother, pointing and laughing at silly things from the comfort of a rear window. I remember enough faces and places to fill two, three whole days on end.
Those days are long gone--not only with the passing of extended family members, but also with my childhood, the old family car, and my parents' energy (they are coming to 70). Over the years, we've scaled back on everything. This year, for the first time, we missed the countdown. The next day, we house-hopped out of sync with the extended family, missing all of them until we reached our final stop, where I was saved from an excrutiating night of staring, nodding and smiling by a Star Movies telecast of Fantastic Four.
Today, my father was slumped in his lazy chair outside my room for hours, age digging heavily into his bones. Not having to go to the office, I scrambled together a been-meaning-to-do agenda: re-read parts of my business school admissions essay books, try my hand at drafting outlines, make personal travel arrangements, do some of my freelance work. It was refreshingly productive. In the evening, I headed with my parents for the last visit of the year like an afterthought.
And as I stood there on the pavement, waiting to cross, it suddenly occured to me how sad and funny it had all become--now, what makes my Chinese New Year feel like a holiday is not the visiting, but the lack of it.
I remember the greedy ang pow tallies, calculating what toys I could buy; I remember pilfered chocolates in my pockets, endless car rides to somewhere and nowhere, word games with my brother, pointing and laughing at silly things from the comfort of a rear window. I remember enough faces and places to fill two, three whole days on end.
Those days are long gone--not only with the passing of extended family members, but also with my childhood, the old family car, and my parents' energy (they are coming to 70). Over the years, we've scaled back on everything. This year, for the first time, we missed the countdown. The next day, we house-hopped out of sync with the extended family, missing all of them until we reached our final stop, where I was saved from an excrutiating night of staring, nodding and smiling by a Star Movies telecast of Fantastic Four.
Today, my father was slumped in his lazy chair outside my room for hours, age digging heavily into his bones. Not having to go to the office, I scrambled together a been-meaning-to-do agenda: re-read parts of my business school admissions essay books, try my hand at drafting outlines, make personal travel arrangements, do some of my freelance work. It was refreshingly productive. In the evening, I headed with my parents for the last visit of the year like an afterthought.
And as I stood there on the pavement, waiting to cross, it suddenly occured to me how sad and funny it had all become--now, what makes my Chinese New Year feel like a holiday is not the visiting, but the lack of it.
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