2021, Your seat at the table. Your Home
February 1, 2021. For you, baby. Love you, baby.
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Flipping on the phone, the photo app sends me a day of heaven. Six years ago today. Breakfast in bed first thing in the morning. A happy dinner of four. A beautiful cake picked out by you and your sister. Smiling faces all day, all around.
Back in May, one night, I was just there reading on the bed. You walked up, and asked me, “Dad, do you want a breakfast in bed tomorrow?” I said, “Of course. But you will have to get up early.” You said, “What time do you get up?”. Me, “Seven, no later than eight.” You negotiated, “Can you just sleep in a bit later?” Me, not giving any second thought at all, “No, sorry.” And you hesitated, and then said, “Never mind.” You walked away. I gave it no second thought after the conversation. I just let it go. I just let you go.
Your sister made her first cake, a beautiful ice cream fruitcake, for herself in June. We never told you. But she and I talked about making a cheesecake for you in August. Instead, she began to make her second cake last night. It is not a cheesecake. She will probably not make a cheesecake ever. But it looks very beautiful. Would you mind a piece anyway?
Love you baby.
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2008, Ala Moana Beach, Honolulu, HI, USA
Would you just come like that, again? Love you baby.
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2016, Your House
January 24, 2016. In less than sixteen years, we had been through a lot together, hadn’t we? When you had that high fever during the freezing January when you were just three-year-old, the doctors gave up on pricking your fingers and toes to collect blood samples for testing because there wasn’t any left intact to prick. At home, medicines no longer able to lower your temperature, I got into the bathtub and lay in the lukewarm water with you. We got through it together. We drove on the highway in the desert and got hit by a sandstorm. We could see nothing except for the tiny yellow sands smashing into the car windows. We relished that once in a lifetime experience. You tried to help me fix that lawnmower. The stupid me started the engine and then the blade flew out and just missed you by not that much. I slapped myself so hard for the stupidity and my ears rang for days. And then on January 24, 2016, after that crazy snowstorm, we put on our skis to do cross country skiing outside the house. You carved your messages into the snow along the way. That ever familiar “Hi”, the one I had seen on so many times on your notes and cards to me, over all those years. Why didn’t you just leave me one more? You know I would be looking for it, my dear James. Love you baby.
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2008, Island of Hawai'i, Hawaii, USA
January 20. Had we really done that much on January 20? We were at the top of the El Yunque National Forest, where you took my favorite personal picture in my life. We swam in the hole under the splendid La Coca Falls, just like in the movies. We kayaked into the dark water in a bioluminescent bay in late evening, to see and touch those mysterious marine organisms that give out neon blue and green lights when disturbed. You sat in the game of thrones chair on the Atlantis Paradise Island, smiling and waving at me so sweetly as you always were. We went to a movie in Tysons Corner. And there is this one, on January 20, 2008. We were on a rental car to explore the Big Island of Hawaii. We drove around the mountain with snow on the top year-round. We snapped this beautiful picture on a random break. And we drove onto the living volcano. You needed to pee. Sure, I told you to just pee on the lava rock. And sure, I would take photos of that blatant act. And sure, for a dad mean as I am, I made sure you never forgot that I was holding evidence against you. But what have I managed to hold onto? Love you baby.
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January 18, 2021. Six. Months. My dear James.
I was a pessimist. I was also a day dreamer. I got smacked down left and right all my life. I also learned to crawl along, to struggle back up on my feet. But I had never been burnt to ashes. I really want to stay down, this time. It is all fear in me. I am a day dreader, my James.
Throughout that short journey of yours, I asked you to be tough; I taught you to be tough; I tried to force toughness on you. I am sorry James. I now know how tough it is to be tough.
On that fateful afternoon six months ago, in all my numbness, I even had time to check on all the alcohols in the house. No, they were all intact. They were all as they were before.
And I have been thinking about getting drunk more and more. What do I know about toughness, my dear James?
Milo and Felix just leaped to your desk, again, in their graceful way. Felix is leaning on my arm while I type. Milo sits in front of one of the monitors, staring at what I am writing on the flickering screen. When you last saw them, they were just such cute little things. In six months, they have tripped their weight. Your Milo, the fearless tiger, is still as curious, as loyal, and as brave as before, guarding against all other dogs and cats he believes to be intruding. Felix and Milo, however, wouldn’t mind even if we rub on their teeth and claws. They would snuggle up with their little foreheads, showing their affection. They have grown up so fast. And they know they have grown up in whole-hearted love in this family. My James, did you? I thought I was so sure about many things. I really wasn’t. And I am not anymore.
Five years ago today, four years and six months before that day, we escaped from the winter blizzard at home into the Atlantis Paradise Island, Bahamas. The waterpark. The beach. The paradise. We took one of my favorite family pictures on that golden sand, with the crystal-clear water gently splashing our bare feet. In the back, the turquoise ocean goes all the way to the infinity, where it hugs the cloud.
In the waterpark, with all my pretend bravado of a dad, I climbed up to the top of the world’s most notorious water slide, “Leap of Faith”, on the Mayan Tower, with you. I got up to the edge, staring down the near vertical drop of the slide for a whole minute. My fake courage all dissipated in the tropical wind, I backtracked to the solid tower floor and asked you, “Do you want to go first?” You said, “Sure”. Then I watched my big boy calmly walked up there, sat down on the edge, folded your arms in your chest, and pushed off with your hip and legs. You disappeared in no time. Seconds later, you reappeared in the lagoon far, far, down there, full of killer sharks swimming around the clear tunnel you were in. You got out of the water and waved at me to come down. You called on me to join you there. Your smile so wide that I believed I could see your dimple from afar. Of course, dad would go to you. No matter how much fear in me, my love and trust in you always brought me there.
There hadn’t been a single time dad didn’t eventually go to you, or come around to you, had there? Why would you not put faith in dad anymore? Why would you not even let me know and try me, for whatever it is? Why have I failed so miserably, still?
Mom and your sister and I went to a pizza place two days ago. You and I talked about it before, but never got around to go. Your sister ordered the pineapple. Your favorite. It was good pizza. I knew you would love it. We also ordered some chicken wings. End of June, we fired up our grill at home and had our last barbeque. At the end, there were a couple chicken wings and others left on the platter. You said to me, “You can have the wings. I know you love them”. It so warmed my heart at that moment. I ate them all.
Not this time. All the good pizza and tasty wings were trying to come back up as soon as I swallowed. How could I have any good things in life but you don’t.
Love you my dear baby.
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2015, Your House
January 15, 2015. The first winter since we moved into that house. There was that big snow storm. Together, we built a big snow house on the side yard. With lots of excitement, we talked about how long that snow house would last while putting it up. It did. For a long while. Then and there, on that day, after everything else had returned to its original shape and form and color, you stood on top of the lingering snow, in your happy boyish smile, commemorating the enduring spirit of the snow house. Still, gone is the snow house, in the end. Gone is the house. Gone is my sweet boy. Gone is half of my life. Oh, how I miss you, James. How I love you, my baby.
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2007
January 10, 2007. Las Vegas. You came. You cried. You laughed. You played. And you went. You designed so many games for us to play together. When the world came to a stop. You designed your game. Without any role for us. You went. With a smile. Only that mom still quietly sobbing in the closet. Love you baby.
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2016, Bay Shore, NY, USA
January 2, 2021. Had a free and slow day before visiting you later in the afternoon. Somehow, I thought of that older camera that you played with when you were smaller, the Canon Rebel XTi. I took it out of the storage chest, pulled out the big fat flash memory card, dug up the card reader, and hook it up to the computer. Surprisingly, everything still works. And there it is. The sunset at Robert Moses Causeway Bridge over Bay Shore, Long Island, on July 19, 2016. We were at the beach. And then you asked me to drive back to that spot we saw on the way earlier, where you wanted to come back for the sunset. The first time we seriously chased the sun. After photographing that sunset, you asked me if you could get a better camera as your birthday present. Of course, my sweet James. We ordered the Canon 70D a few days later, which arrived just in time when you turned thirteen. The sun set under the bridge that day. My boy’s passion soared over the arch. July 19. Something beautiful started. Love you forever baby.
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2005, National Zoo, Washington, DC, USA
January 1, 2005. Happy New Year, my James. Love you baby.
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2004, Fair Oaks Mall, Fair Oaks Mall, Fairfax, VA, USA
“Your line of sight, James”. You knew your dad has a bad habit of being repetitive. And I repeated that line every single time you sat on the wheel the last year. But I knew you didn’t mind the repetition too much. You are always such a kind soul. You drove beautifully. On July 4th, you drove us to the party and back, on the narrow, winding roads over the hills. On the afternoon of June 29th, I roused you from your bed, “James, want to go out with me and do some driving?”. You replied, in your maturing voice, “Ok”. And then we went out. A smooth and beautiful ride, even with my heart over my throat half the time. You even learned to fuel the gas for the first time that afternoon. Beautiful dad and son time, James. On December 31, 2004, looking at that relaxed grip of the steering wheel, by the one-year-old boy, why would I ever be surprised you would drive well? Now you have gone beyond driving. You have flown away, my angel. No more bumpy rides. We are crossing over the hump to 2021 in this mundane world. Oh my baby. I love you.
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2013, Your Home
Seven years ago today. I took this picture of the big envelop. A new start. As a new citizen of the free country. Never even mentioned to anybody about that little act of mine. Last night in bed, I had this dream. In the dream, you took some risk in an outdoor adventure and broke your leg. I got you. You would limp for the rest of your life. But I got to hold you tight and help you along every step. I held you so tight. I woke up. It was all emptiness. Not even the white emptiness. But a total void in the darkness. Love you my dear baby.
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2017, Cajun Pride Swamp Tours, Frenier Road, LaPlace, LA, USA
December 28, 2017. Swamp boat tour near Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Snapping turtle. Baby alligator. And snakes. You held them all in your hands. You managed to put a fleeting scare in your crazy dad that day. I am scared now. I should have been half a year ago, James. Love you forever baby.
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2015, Old Rag Mountain, Robertson, VA, USA
December 27, 2015. An unseasonably warm day. We put aside our skiing outfits and headed to the Old Rag Mountain, with a bunch of equally crazy people. As sure as day follows night, the sweet boy was at the corner of the tunnel, waving back. December 27, 2020, we are back from a 2400-mile trip to Miami. In the long, long drive, I looked into the middle rear-view mirror more than once, there was the empty seat in that familiar spot. I turned back to peek over my shoulder more than once, there was that ultimate void staring back at me, every single time. Not totally empty, maybe. Because Felix took to taking naps in that seat. Ever since you stopped using that seat, your sister has been sitting in it. I could never bring myself to ask her why. But during this trip, she moved back to her old seat. I could not bring myself to ask her why. Milo, oh dear Milo, was sitting in the middle console, leaning on my arm ever so gently, keeping me company, for most of the drives. For the whole stay in Miami, we always got restaurant take-outs to eat back at the apartment we rented. But on Christmas Eve, I asked mom and your sister whether we should eat at the restaurant. Your sister said, “let’s take the food back and eat with the kittens”. We all agreed. Five of us is so much better than three of us. Right, my dear James? Two thousand four hundred miles. A really long way to drive. A really long way to sit through. A vacation of not doing anything. A vacation your sister, mom and I took for each other. Felix and Milo, the little kittens are growing up fast. Your sister, the little princess, is growing up way too fast. How I wished me myself, supposedly the grown-up, had grown up enough half a year ago to change all that. Love you my angel.
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2019, Your House
December 25, 2019. The laugh. Did mom and I manage to prank you and your sister one last time? Love you so so much baby.
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2017, Sedona, AZ, USA
December 24, 2017. You are tired of turning back to us? The only Christmas I can’t have a picture of you. After sixteen of them. Love you forever baby.
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2019, Snowshoe Mountain Resort, Snowshoe Drive, Snowshoe, WV, USA
Today, the three of us wandered around in Miami. One year ago today, the four of us went for our last ski trip on Snowshoe. Two years ago today, the four of us were on the campuses of UVA and Virginia Tech. Three years ago today, the four of us were in Zion National Park......saying love you gets heavier, with time, my dear James. Love you forever baby.
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2017, Mesquite Flat Sand Dunes, DEATH VALLEY, CA, USA
December 20, 2017. You imprinted your shadow into the many faces, many layers, and many dreams of the sand dune. Today, we are chasing your shadow into Florida, with only the little cute egg-shape stone we picked up under the waterfall in Alaska, with the wooden egg you picked out at the old town market in Prague. In Florida, there is the shadow of that one-year old who fought his way out of the car seat; there is the shadow of the six-year old who denied it was his second time in Disney world because the first time was too young for him to count; there is the shadow of the ten-year old so excited to take his first cruise. We didn’t want to chase. We wanted to escape. But we end up chasing. There is no escape from loving you, baby.
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2017, West Lake, Los Angeles, CA
You went to Los Angeles four times. Every single time, except for the first one when you were only two, we went for a haircut, together. Same this time. Fresh off the clipper, James style, for which I teased you more than just a few times in that trip, just as you laughed off my always boring buzz cut. Love you forever baby.
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December 18, 2020. Five months. Two seasons past. Summer is gone. Autumn is gone. Winter is here. Snow is here. This world is so cold out there now. The cold fire inside me is still burning me down. How have we gotten here?
And Christmas is coming up. How are we going to do it without you, James? We had sixteen wonderful Christmas together, starting with us opening your presents and putting them into your tiny palms, when you were just that chubby doll. Then you began to sneak downstairs, to the Christmas tree, at midnight, to check if Santa had come, and how many presents he had left. One morning when you were six or seven, you declared that you caught Mr. Santa, no, Mrs. Santa. Because you saw mom putting down the presents just before midnight.
Then our unannounced game of hide-and-seek began for the years that came after. We would buy your and your sisters’ Christmas presents ahead of time, sometimes way ahead. We would hide them. And you would look for them when we didn’t pay attention. Then in the days before Christmas, you would declare to us what you already found out you were getting for Christmas. We elevated our hiding game every year, to no avail. Because you figured out the ultimate seeking tool when you started middle school. You began to monitor our online orders and deliveries two months before Christmas. James, my dear detective, how could I have been surprised. You were the one designing ten-step easter egg hunts for all of us on Easters, with a different riddle as the clue for each step, and for each of us.
Well, on Christmas Eve 2019, we rushed back home from Snowshoe Ski Resort, because you and your sisters said you really want to spend a Christmas at home. With your crazy dad, we had spent our last several Christmas everywhere but home. Well. Mom and I successfully pulled off a surprise for you and Cynthia that night. Didn’t we?
We got you two the same Apple Airpods. Very small packages. But we put one in a giant outer box, and the other in a much smaller one. Both with some more layers of boxes in-between. Nicely wrapped. We told you guys that you have to pick a box first, without knowing what you might get. A difficult choice, right? Then you talked to you sister a bit, and asked us if the two of you can exchange the presents if you liked each other’s more. I said of course.
Then the unwrapping began. Then the smiles and laughs erupted as the outer wrappings and boxes were taken apart, with the two of you holding two little packages of the same size, and the same weight, except that yours is already down to the Apple packaging, and Cynthia’s still had the last paper wrapping. You guys stacked the two packages together neatly, patting each other, linking arms, rolling, and laughing, and laughing……
The Christmas, at home. Was it planned? Was it fate?
Oh, James. Flipping through the photos. How I wish time had frozen in 2019? Right at that moment?
Love you forever baby.
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2017, Angels Flight, Los Angeles, CA
December 17, 2017. Angels Flight. My angel ready to take flight. My angel already took flight. Love you forever baby.
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2017, Graffiti Park at Castle Hill, Baylor Street, Austin, TX, USA
I just did some work with spray paints the other day, alone. And I was thinking of this, you in the Graffiti Park in Austin, Texas, on December 16, 2017, when we left our marks on one of those walls with the spray paint can, together. It is the first day of our yet another crazy 2-week, 5-state trip. Leaving home early morning, we took a day trip in Austin, getting in the line for the famous Texas barbeque for lunch, and had dinner in Los Angeles. We would go on ahead to the Death Valley, the lowest point of the continent. We got hit by a sand storm on the way to Vegas. We made your favorite steak and lobster dinner on Christmas eve in the hotel outside of Sedona, Arizona. We climbed the Camelback Mountain where you proved yet again I am old. We went to the swamp tour outside of New Orleans, where you picked up the snakes passed around by the tour guide, and shoved them in front of me, scaring me so bad. And we all tried the Whataburger in Houston before heading home on New Year’s Eve. James, what a life we had had, together. Dad can not do those again, without you. Love you forever baby.
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2016, Rocky Mountains
December 13, 2016. Mountain top on the Rockies, after two long ski-lift rides. Snow splashing into our faces. The whole mountain now wide open. It was total wilderness. Visibility so low, your bright orange was my guide. But you never went wild. Just like in your whole short sixteen years and eleven months, you were the one holding me back from doing more crazy things. I have been the crazy one in the family, and you the calm and rational one. Why, James, why. Love you forever baby.
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2016, Monarch, CO, USA
December 10, 2016. Having laid in bed for hours, sleep just would not come. Wondering why, I opened the photo app, and saw this, the first day of our ski trip to Colorado, on the Monarch Mountain. It’s our family’s fourth year of love with skiing. An exciting day. It all started in Seven Springs, Pennsylvania, where we got on the skis for the first time, for the whole family, in 2012. Regardless of our lack of any experience, you, mom and I signed up for the intermediate class, the culmination of which would be the coach taking all up the ski lift for the green slope. No more than five minutes into the class, you and I got kicked back to the beginner’s group, joining Cynthia. Mom had a good laugh at us. By day’s end, you, my daredevil, however, raced down that big blue slope, at full speed, because you hadn’t learned how to properly slow down. On the third day, after too much fun on the baby slope with your sister, I mustered enough courage to get on the ski lift for the green. The result? Well, I tumbled so many times, in so many imaginable and unimaginable styles that my whole body was in pain. I had to take off my skis and boots, and carry them down the slope in my socks. It was either carrying them or my fallen pieces of bones. Later I was told that the concerned family and friends sent out a search party for me because it took way too long already. Fast-forward four years, In 2016, we had become skiing enthusiasts. An early start in the day, feeling like having the whole mountain to ourselves. All fresh, waist-deep, untouched powder. We raced down the slopes, tagged each other in the woods, and admired the serenity of the Rockies. You, Cynthia and I would go for the challenges and adventures, in our traditional formation, with you taking the lead. That bright orange was always ahead. No matter where we went, I knew I just need to follow and catch up to that orange, and you would be patiently waiting for us. Love you forever baby.
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December 7, 2016. Looking at you, all dressed up, for the school orchestra performance at the school district holiday event, a short four years ago. You played the violin. You only learned it at school. Never bothered with private lessons. Nor bothered much with practices either. One day five years ago, you told us you made it into the chamber of the school orchestra. We asked you, "now do you want to take private lessons?" You replied with your typical "Nah". Keeping it a real hobby to enjoy. I knew. You were really happy in those couple of middle school years.
In March, I already started hating the year. One day after our family walk after dinner, having to avoid other people all the way because of the virus lockdown, I asked you to shave my head bald. My first in my life. I dubbed it "To remember in order to forget".
To remember. To forget. My dear James. Love you forever baby.
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