Heaven Can't Wait

4:38am. I barely caught up with my email after a long weekend’s accumulation when I suddenly realized I had passed my 4:30AM date with my prayer partner. “Bare me before the Lord as I bare you before the Lord” – that was what he said to me when we left him that Sunday. He had been home from the hospital on hospice care. He was lying down on the bed next to the living room’s window where the sun was hanging bright and high on yet another wintery day. His face all beamed up from that 30-minutes hymn impromptu that Luke had put together on request. My Bible sat forlornly at the desk, eyeing me with a question mark and rebuke. You are late! I glared back with a challenging look. Late, for what? 4:30 or forever? My partner is missing in action.

It has been almost 24 hours when that phone call came. 6:44AM exactly. I had been lying awake since 6:15 and trying to pull myself form the warm bed. The house was still and silent except for my idle thoughts and the debating if I should get up already. The booming ring of the phone did not alarm me much; it was late for us even for Sunday and we have had quite a few wrong numbers from the past. I heard my thoughtful other half running out to find the handset. I was still unconcerned even when he returned and opened the door. It was not until when he placed his hand on my arm that I sensed something was wrong. “Charlie died.” He said quietly. The room was dark. I was somewhat lost between a reality and a dream. I thought I should be crying or something, but I was just sitting there, swinging between too many extremes: somberness and sobriety, shocked and expected, frenzy and calm. On top of all, I was somewhat angry. I had had other plan for today - we were going to surprise him again with another violin rendezvous after church, but Charlie had bailed out at the last minute

The tears did not come on my own, I have to confess. They were induced by the others’ grieving eyes later that day and again at his funeral 3 days later. The funeral was surprisingly small, and short, but at the same time so appropriate and perfect for him. He would have wanted no other way. Tears, like yawn, are contagious at its opportune time. And there I was, sitting at the church he started decades ago, surrounded by a handful of old-timers who have been there with him through thin and thick, weeping like a fool. His casket sat forlornly before the podium where he had preached with the tiny, hand-written notes from his pocket and a smile that never failed to revive any weary soul. Right there in front and between the pews was his favorite trail when he’d pace up and down while he preached. To the left stood the new keyboard, replacing the old piano where Luke was, playing with a big grin the Christmas carols on a hot summer Sunday. It was the same church with fresh paint, a remodeled kitchen, much improved nursery and almost new congregation. Everything looked the same but everything was different. He was there and yet he was gone. The irony was: He had tried so hard to withdraw and retreat himself from this church and now he finally succeeded -- only by vanishing, for good.

Why do people say “Be happy for him; he is home now” when it is anything but happy that I am feeling? His gain has become my loss of a friend so noble and different from me. He was God’s best student, the meek and joyful, generous and faithful while I God’s worst student, proud and miserable, selfish and unfaithful. And yet there was some ridiculous resemblance between us. It takes one so awkward and misplaced to know another so insecure, one with no reason to and another with every reason; child-like, one innocent and pure while another incapable to grow up; passionate, he for all beauty and knowledge of God’s creation and I the vain and worldly things of this life. Even so, he couldn’t help his generous, shepherd heart to overlook my wretched flaws and befriend me. And now we parted; the good and faithful servant has completed his journey and the wayward, runaway slave continues on with his exile. Without his Paul’s intersession and advocacy, can Onesimus ever find his way home? Knowing him and his optimism, I can almost hear his answer. My head knows he is right, but my heart with all shame and grief wants to tell him this: heaven can wait, Charlie! I wish so much for yet another our 4:30am session, the Charlie-Benjamin meeting at blogger.com or our small talk at the church kitchen. I can see him still doing all that, but much, much more, only with our big Brother now. Mayhap he is winking at me and telling me why he couldn’t wait. Despite of all my selfish tears, there is yet this relief for his sake – he is home now, the fish back to the water, finally. If there is anyone that knows how liberating it is, that would be me.

It was a bitter sweet farewell, starting with tears and ending in calm. Yes, I was almost fine as I drove out of the parking lot, taking that same road home as I did on those Sundays after saying good-bye to him. Only this time it was the last good-bye. For once, I actually overcame my selfishness and felt happy for him. No more toil, heartaches and fear, just home, safe and free. And as sure as I was with his kind heart, I had my suspicion that he’d still be doing what he did here, along with sweet Jesus, praying and waiting forever more for his unworthy friend at 4:30am, every day.

I Heard The Owl Call His Name?

After a long stretch of cold wintry days, I found myself surprised to face a sky blue and air gentle as I walked out of office. It dawned on me that January has in fact moved soundly to its last leg. The hint of a season’s end was intoxicating. I felt the freeze thawing everywhere: the pedestrians’ face, the 4pm traffic, and the weariness within me. Even this big winter lover was anxious to move on to the next phase. Spring is in the air, and I am happy, or I thought I was. My chest that just opened up moments ago suddenly sank with heaviness. And then and there I wondered why spring could come despite of all.

No, the sun should not shine and sky not blue. And why does this world carry on so casually as if nothing is wrong? The cars were moving, minutes ticking and life recycling just like any other day. I was almost angry. And there it was again, the same anguish that had haunted me all day long. Without any warning, the tears and the sobs overtook me. I started crying.

Why does our subconsciousness or memory continue to keep us captive when we will to flee? The images of Sunday in room 544, almost colorless, a window with a view of grey sky, and a motionless bed where C. slept, flashed on and off without any warning. He had been sleeping much that day, the nurse told us, but it would do him good to have some visitors. She woke him up. I could still see his face – pale, yet almost boyish. He said with a smile that morphine had stopped the pain. He looked content and happy. “Me and the Lord – He sits there and keeps me company”, said he, pointing at the end of his bed. It drew a smile from both of us, and the tears too – smile without much joy and tears of sorrow. He talked on while we listened, struggling to match his playful mood. For a brief second, I wondered if we were the ones lying on that hospital bed and he, the doting pastor-father, comforting the sick and needy.

What do you say to someone who senses the coming of the end? Is there anything that can really convince both inquirer and replier without sounding contrived? “No, there is nothing wrong watching TV at the last days.” Both question and answer were ridiculous. He asked us if we read the book “I heard The owl Call My Name” and with a child-like grin he added: “it’s scary!” The room was still except for our disjointed conversation – the medication he has been taking had impaired some of his hearing and senses. Part of me wanted to stay forever for our mismatched, awkward talk and part of me wanted to run away. The air in that room was stifling, I thought. I looked out of the window and there they were, the seagulls, gliding away silently. I remembered the owl and wondered why it scared him.

I have been there a few times already; it’s only logical at my age. And yet, the fear continues to puzzle and shame me. The promise in my head is no match to the doubt in my heart. Did they really arrive at that final destination that makes up all the toil and ploy of a lifetime? What if at the end of the drudgery we find ourselves opening a door that leads to a wall and all the pain and grief of living and dying is just pain and grief? I looked at C’s face and found neither pain nor grief; his eyes reflected joy and trust, pure and simple. He was at home in that small hospital room with the machines mechanically beeping, nurses and patients quietly passing to and fro. Heaven could be there, as in anywhere: his own home, the podium at the church, or dinner at our kitchen. The fear and doubt was all mine if and when the owl calls; He would be all too happy to go to Vinny’s for our pizza date or that final trip home.

My tears finally stopped. It was but a Wednesday afternoon, with an unexpected relief from a long and cold winter. The pain was still there, burning persistently for a brother-friend whose life has been a hidden treasure: complex yet simple, ordinary and most extraordinary, empowering though demine. Our paths have crossed but a brief 3 years, but I would never trade its depth with the length of any other substitute. I may not have my answers yet, but I know wherever he goes, there I would like to go - even when the owls call my name.

His Brother's Keeper

5pm on a January day, cold even for southern Virginia. Outside the remnant of daylight was slipping away quietly and inside dusky and soundless. I was listening for the door and Luke walking in from his daily trip to the gym. Instead, the phone rang and broke the silence. I dashed to reach for the handset – a late afternoon phone call could only mean 2 things: his call to say he was coming home or he was stuck somewhere with a flat. It was neither. The voice was agitated and hesitant. “Nothing”, he repeated, when it meant anything except nothing. He clams shut when he is unsure or frightened. Finally, I traced down to the cause: he had gone to his father’s lab and could not find him. It was but a few miles from home, but he was in no shape of choosing the option to return home in his bike when he was stuck in that mood. My small cross-over has no capacity to accommodate his bike, thus I could not offer to come pick him and his bike up. Desperate times call for desperate measure. The only option left was to call his brother at the dorm. Can you pick Luke up with the van? I explained why and apologized for the bad timing. It was rush hour time and the traffic could be at the peak of its worse. There was not a second thought or reluctance. He quickly said yes and was on his way already.

45 minutes later, the door opened and in walked Luke, alone. His brother had dropped him home and left. I hurried outside, hoping to catch him – to praise and thank him and maybe even persuade him with a dinner. The driveway was empty with no trace of his van. There was a sliver of emptiness in my heart from the disappointment. An average son would have come in to say hi or something. Then again, an average son would not have gone out to bail his helpless brother without a whine or fight. He was nothing average.

He had finished his Christmas break and gone back to his dorm just this week. It was but a short 3-week stay, including the 5-day family vacation he bailed out at the last minute. My nothing-average son is looking quite average in his growing up and away. There no longer exists much family bonding time when he is home. He stayed in his room most of the time. When he came out, he would be upstairs watching TV or his DVD’s. Occasionally both of them might share the same facility or space, mostly during Luke’s passion, the game shows, for you could hear their zealous exchanges or uproars on and off, one serious participating and another one comical commenting. It was an odd combination of many things: normal and yet rare, fun and sad, sweet and sour. Regardless, for this not-so-ordinary family, it almost made us ordinary.

No, moments like that maybe everyday or everywhere for others, but for us it has been a long time coming. I remember the first few years of his life how hopeful we once felt, for us and for his autistic brother. His animation, difference and even brilliance were the only things that brought us afloat. He would be fine, we said to ourselves, no, more than fine. And when we are gone, he would be there for his lesser brother. He would be his protector, his keeper. Sadly, this high hope came tumbling down soon enough. For the longest time, the promised rescuer turned into a persecutor – oscillating between a ghost-like shadow and a volcanic, damaging nightmare that you can’t wait to wake up from. It consumed and depleted us all to the bone. When his own label finally came in, it did not bring us any relief. The truth, instead of setting us free, left us a harsh reality that these two children shall be one day left behind, equally alone and helpless.

Does time really heal all wounds? Or is it the distance that makes the heart grow fonder? I wonder. The 3-mile-away college somehow seems to have brought back that 3-year-old who was once Luke’s shadow and sunshine. The compassion has returned and replaced impatience or sometimes shame. The same exclamation, “LUKE!”, no longer sounds annoyed or unkind but rather fond and almost indulging. Nearly 15 years of broken dream later, I have been trained to take life as it is, one day at a time, with little expectation. I have no other alternative but to cling to the hope that claims not to disappoint. And I was certainly not at all disappointed then. On the contrary, I was almost hopeful! I looked out of the empty driveway and imagined how they unloaded Luke’s bike together and him saying “you ok, Luke?” before driving off. That emptiness in my heart from the earlier disappointment was suddenly filled. I realized then the promise might just have been delivered - except more than I ever dreamed of: both his brother’s keeper and his keeper.

Mommy's Little Girl

2 more hours and I can officially conclude the year 2010, professionally at least, and go home in joy. There will be at least 4 days of scheduled vacation time, which means 4 nights free of fear even if insomnia strikes, and at least 3 mornings to choose from as "mommy time" when I would pick up the phone and talk to my mother, separated by a vast ocean and land and ½ day of time. For 2 and half years, my “professional career” has greatly reduced the frequency of my bonding time with mother, and this break surely offers a rare luxury when I can just kick back with a cup of tea or coffee and talk with her for a couple of hours over absolutely nothing.

Nearly 3 decades have passed since I left my mother. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Young and ignorant, I had no idea that would be the beginning of an end - me being her little girl and her shadow. She has 4 children and somehow this 2nd born claimed and lived the title from day one. It may have something to do with me being the runt that didn’t walk till well after 18 months old, the sick child that came close to die, or the ugly duckling that could never live to fill her sisters’ shoe. Her face was the first thing I saw in my waking up from sleepwalking, the same nightmare night after night, and those deserted insomnia nights. As a teenager, while my other 2 beautiful and outgoing sisters enjoyed their prime of friendship and courtship, I was home alone dating my books and my mother. I become so attached to her that for the longest time I thought I would never be able to marry and leave her.

Apart from the perfect match between the protector and the helpless, we actually share little in common, interest-wise or personality-wise. She is head-strong and independent while I am hesitant and insecure. And yet, there is this forever tug in my heart when it comes to my mother, with which none of her 3 other children care to share or fathom. While they may argue that it is because of the safety of distance, I insist on a supernatural bond despite of any human imperfections. And flawed and faulty she indeed is, as a mother or person, in fact like any parents losing her authority or credibility with time gone by. Over the years, she has become more and more critical and unhappy and thus consequently alone and lonely. I don’t ever remember her being soft or gentle. She has never even uttered “I love you” in our entire life. Still, for me, loving her is like loving the air I breathe in – it takes literally no consciousness or effort of my own. And how could I not? I still feel her cool hand on my burning forehead in those sick nights, the back I learned on when she took me to the doctors on the bike and the face that beamed from the audience at my school functions. She gave me everything a child ever needed: protection of a mother and father, nurture in sickness and guidance for future. And because of her I now have everything she never has: education, independence and even love. The truth is: as we grow older, our roles have reversed – I am now her protector, fending her honor against the world – even when that world is reduced to her own family. With distance and time, I continue to remain her only faithful listener and biggest fan as she once was for me.

Does love really cover multitude of sins? I wonder. If so, why does it not apply to her other children, friends or even family? Is distance really the only safeguard for long lasting relationship? Even true, the price tag is far too costly. I remember the last time when I left her, all too many times after my first leave, the same emotions, heartache, pang and grief, rushing through my core overtook me as if it had been the first time, except it was compounded with the realization that it could be the last time. Her once erect now slouched frame stubbornly sat by that kitchen table looked far and frail. We are now both growing old. Why does it hurt so much more to see your mother age than yourself? Was it just yesterday when the body I hugged felt much stronger and taller? She was pulling away from me – the tears and embrace were not customary for our culture, but she had endured them for my sake. If there were anything harder than saying good-bye to your mother, it would be seeing her in your blurry eyes, all alone and deserted, and you walking away like the rest of the shameless, heartless defectors. In too many ways, we have all moved along and there she is at the same spot, left behind and fading away.

My tea is made and my heart leaping with mixed emotion - a little bit of sadness and a little bit of excitement. I could almost hear her voice now – light and casual as if we were never been away from each other. An instant rush of comfort ran through me and made me almost happy. The magic of a mother’s touch! One that is gentle enough to calm the wildest beast and strong enough to cheer the timid coward. Either way, it always takes me home. Yes, here I come, ready and gladly to be her little girl again, to talk fashion, recipes or simply nothing at all.

Merry Christmas, finally

The day before Christmas: cold, gusty and wintery. The sun was hanging high on a deceivingly calm and clear blue sky. For a change I had actually caught up with all my email and work list. There in the office scattering about were but a few of us, hanging on for the last stretch before holiday break commenced. The air was lazy and aimless, as was inside of me. One more day and a few hours of changes, Christmas would be here and I was none at all merry or jolly. There should be a law against any vacation trip prior to Christmas, which we had foolishly committed the week before, even for the mere reason of a 25th wedding anniversary. Returning from a less-than-successful trip 4 days before Christmas yielded many undesirable side effects, i.e. an empty refrigerator, a Christmas tree with no gifts underneath and a hollow heart devoid of joy or hope.

Merry or not, the dreadful day did arrive and, ironically, actually started with a miracle: I slept straight through the night. By 9am, all Christmas magic or ritual was performed and completed. There ahead of us was yet a long day with no planned activity or company. Outside the sky was covered with a mass of grey, while the ground the remnant of autumn brown. We had done various attempts to celebrate the joy of season: going home to family in Pittsburgh, crashing friends’ Christmas party in New England or even hosting our own. This year raking leaves was added to the collection; not at all orthodox, but at least original. From 9:30am to 2pm past, we attacked the yard with a vengeance: raking, blowing and bagging. Though painstaking, there is something precious about laborious acts in its purifying or therapeutic effect. The benefits are two-folds. First off, you experience a rare luxury when body and mind coexist in harmony, where one’s productivity (or not) impacts little that of the other’s (except for a few unpleasant times when the power cord of the leaf blower became entangled or caught). In fact, it is one of those moments when physical activity actually promotes mental imagination to run free and wild. Secondly, there is always some goal associated with the toil that helps forming an allegiance between those two. Such goal, sometimes trivial or ridiculous (like raking leaves before next week’s pick-up) produces hope and dream, without which life is reduced to perpetual drudgery.

5 hours of harmony, or peace on earth, (except our cou-de-sac, from the intruding, screaming leaf blower) and 40+ bags of leaves on the curb later, we returned to the house exhausted though exhilarated. I had not realized it would have taken that long and that the Christmas dinner was still in the refrigerator. I wasted no time in plunging into the 2nd act of the Christmas Carol, washing, cutting and cooking like a storm. I was about to regret our prior conquest (or impulse) in raking leaves, when I looked outside of the window and there they were: the fluffy flakes ever so gingerly, but definitely, dancing around. I gasped and remembered my neighbor telling me the day before: it might snow on Christmas and if it did, it would be a White Christmas since 1940’s…. Be it the merit of making the statistics or record, I was instantly excited. The magic of snow, small scale then as there was but a dust draping lightly on the ground, trees and roof tops, was magnified in this cheerless heart of mine when it was combined with our good timing in finishing raking the yard. As I witnessed the dancing miracle before my eyes, my ear was ringing what C had said the day before when we went to visit him. He was all concerned about my lack of Christmas joy and was letting me in the remedy of this ailment: “lie down on the floor and listen to the Christmas hymns!” Although his hearing was impaired from the side effects of another treatment he had received a couple of weeks ago, my loving pastor’s Christmas cheer was none the less true and full in his sparking eyes and wide grin. He who had little reason to rejoice was showing this scrooge who had every reason to how to be merry for Christmas. Suddenly I almost lost my breath as my eyes became blurry – It must have been the phantom like snow and its playing a mischievous trick on me. I think. I realized then and there the secret of Christmas: it lies not on my mood or feeling, the gifts or feast, friends and family. It was hidden behind his twinkling eyes and what ignited my Pastor’s joy in December or July, despite of all.


For me, 2010 Christmas came finally at exactly hour 1600, December 25. And it had nothing to do with the snow.

Brown thumb

Over one month had passed since my return. All work has been caught up, home-front and work force, all except that of the spirit of Christmas – I have not yet been able to live it or feel it despite of the help from TV commercials, radio carols and even all the Christmas parties. Losing 3 weeks had deprived me of the necessary course of migration to the climax of the year. The incurred damage is not only internal but also external, in that even our Christmas tree was not set up well after the Thanksgiving week.

The symptom seemed to be contagious within the family too. Even Luke, our Christmas child, exhibited little excitement for the holiday. A Christmas without his hope and dreams is no Christmas. It simply would not do. I decided to take remediation action: time to get the tree up! We had spent the whole Saturday raking leaves, leaving us Sunday afternoon the only time for mission of Christmas rescue. The designated tree man, though, was pressed with tasks of higher priority then, thus I became the inevitable substitute. I have not been known ever for want of energy and drive at calls of necessity. In fact, I am a firm believer of being the superior species in the claim of that there is nothing we, the child-bearers, cannot do. Putting up a Christmas tree is no exception. Like any other created, flawed creature, I am well aware of my own shortages, but my determination makes up for any possible deficiency – any but 2 things: sewing and gardening. Christmas tree may have the name of “tree”, but in our home it is 100% artificial, consequently 100% safe from my lack of green thumb.

I have wondered why and how I could have been born and raised by 2 parents with innate passion and skills for gardening and still became a walking nightmare in the company of nature. To say that I cannot garden is an understatement. If trees, shrubs and flowers have any say or votes, I would be in fact their worst enemy or predator without even trying. But the tree is made of plastic, so what harm could I possibly incur? That day was packed with actions: driving Luke to his final musical engagement, picking up a few items from stores and even bagging the last few piles of leaves in the chilly, windy weather. Finally I saved the best for the last. Standing in the middle of the great room with a box all duck-taped up, I stared at my “mission” still with little concern. The original tree assignee happened to be a methodical and patient worker. He had labeled and grouped all branches with precise order instruction on the box. I started pulling the piles of branches out and assembling them, feeling brave and invincible. The boom box was singing Christmas carols merrily, matching that of my jolly and carefree spirit. Life was good, and EASY. As I moved along, I noticed some branches hanging slightly too loose for my liking. I gave it a firmer push onto the supporting pole and just like that the pocket snapped and the branch came completely detached. My eyes and mouth dropped open. I could not believe this mishap – certainly this is NOT happening! But the evidence, the broken limb lying lifeless at my hands, was staring vacantly back at me. Nearly 20 years of age, safe and sound under the care of another hand, our Christmas tree broke at my first touch.

So everything went southbound from there. Gone was my gaiety, the Christmas cheer and of course the tree. My drive and zeal deflated, I wrapped up the rest of the mission hastily, abandoning the remaining task of lights and ornaments hanging. I could not even bare the sight of the post mortem. It was a pitiful scene of aftermath with plastic needles panickly scattered around. At 6pm past, the house was quiet and devoid of daylight and life, except that of the destroyer. I realized with a sinking heart that without a doubt the curse of brown thumb extended beyond the boundary of nature. I may be anything - resolute, industrious and spirited, but never the nurturing with a green thumb. It took a 20-year-old, plastic tree to teach me the lesson: the law of nature (literally this time) cannot be violated – not without a price.

2010 marks the year of me becoming the Christmas Grinch when I killed our Christmas Tree.

My Father's Daughter

1.5 months later, 3 weeks’ trip home included, I am back to this side of the ocean. A long journey like that, in distance and time, feels anything but long. There had been much anxiety beforehand, but it did work out with tons of fun, enough rest and even an unexpected happy ending. But why should I ever be surprised? Life has determined to continue playing the same trick on me with its satire and unpredictability. To date, the adventure still overwhelmed me much that I have not yet been able to digest and reflect weeks later.

For the world’s eyes only, I bounced back with barely a day of rest, returning to my job and routines as I battled the persistent jet leg and demanding catch-up with both work and preparation of Thanksgiving. The reality within, though, is the struggle to make peace or sense out of the trip. I had expected its worst when it did quite the opposite. Among all my apprehensions, none other surpassed the relationship I have had with my father.

Oddly, I resemble him the most out of his 4 children. Many have marveled and joked about my being the exact replica of him: dark and small framed with the same facial feature, where the contrariness is that I am exactly the opposite of him. He is reserved and disciplined, while I am explosive and impulsive; he is assertive and graceful yet I timid and awkward; he is forever detached from all fear and care and I perpetually restless and fretful. The biggest absurdity is in as much as our outward resemblance our internal difference has made our relationship an absolute impossibility. Not only have I not had any father-daughter talks or walks, but also his presence intimated me such that I wouldn’t know what to say or act when he was around. It would be an understatement to quote me as NO-“daddy’s little girl”.

Many decades later, across an ocean and a vast foreign land, the separation of time and space may have put this strain between us in remission but it silently continued on and faithfully resurfaced with each trip home. Like any survivors, I developed schemes to cope with life’s obstinate obstacles – in this case, avoiding being with him alone. That was why it surprised even me when I volunteered to go hiking with him the 2nd day after I returned home.

It was one of those mysterious moments when your impulsivity gets the better of you. I could see on his face the same confusion, milder but apparent, at my request. Mayhap he too had a similar out-of-body experience when his sensitivity betrays his better sense, but he did not protest. At 2:30pm, we set out. Our ride to the park was but a 15-minute route through a busy city. I chatted on lightly as I surveyed mindlessly the life and activity on the streets that looked completely alien to me decades later. I was wondering if they looked back at us but a pair of normal father and daughter going outing. Finally we parked and started our hike. It began at the foot of the mountain with endless steps winding around and all the way up. The path was rocky but well maintained. He led the way. At 75, my father is still active and fit. His dancer frame from behind looked nimble and at ease as he took the steps effortlessly. At 3pm, the mountain was almost deserted with air moving soundlessly on the tree top. It was already in the midst of November, and yet the leaves in that tropical island were still in their vibrant green. There in front of me was my estranged father, so close yet forever so far, taking me for a hike. The strenuous activity left us little energy for conversation as we climbed up and down, taking caution for every step. Even then, the contrast between us was evident: he was the royal prince, swift and gracious and I the gypsy, careless and clumsy. Somehow, it felt comfortable: the quiet path, the cool, whispering air and the lazy afternoon sun. And in the mist of that tranquility were the 2 strangers communing wordlessly first time of their life.

One and half hours later, we returned to the foot of the mountain. My knees had taken a toll from those endless steps and I was grateful to see them behind me. My father, surprisingly, looked as unaffected as he ever was. I wondered if that was true inside too. We hopped back to the car and headed back. Traffic started to pick up for rush hour now. As we passed through the same streets, I remembered in growing up when my friends talked of their father-daughter moments how fascinated I was with those mysterious, almost alien experiences of theirs. I couldn’t exactly claim our 2-hour hike as one of those, but I would definitely with much pride chime in now: well, I went hiking with my father!