Set Sail, My Son

The Death of Home

The home I once knew died the moment my father did. I am certain of that now. That unnamed feeling of being home, that strange combination of comfort, nostalgia, and security, has long vanished, leaving it a husk of its former self, the vacant shell of the home I once knew.

I knew that fallout from tragedy was inevitable; I feel that we all know this fact. But, the power it wielded, the power it had to dissolve the most cherished of ideas, can never be known unless experienced. The abstract ideas floating in the ether of my mind, of all of our minds, could never prepare for the cruel realities of living. A single death led to the death of so much more: the death of ideas, of dreams. It led to the death of my home.

Being home again solidified this idea, this idea that my old concept of home is as dead as my father. There now only exists an uneasiness while there, as if the house itself was clinging to its old existence. It tries valiantly to act as if it is still whole, but the irreparable damage has been done. It is no longer home to me, only a sad reminder of the joys that I once had within its walls.

The dead, however, still have their uses, and my time spent within the walls of my old home reinforced the ideas I had that inspired this journey. Home is still out there in some form that is foreign to me, and I will find it. And, I have death to thank for that. Death, despite the depths of its sorrows, birthed an insatiable thirst for life: the life that comes from searching for a home.

Pleasant Conversation

He spent most of his weekends there. The combination of the quiet neighborhood and the ever rotating number of silent companions sated his desire to be calm but not alone. He liked it here: the open patio, the breeze flowing through the trees, and the house roasted beans. It was easy for him to just sip his cold brewed coffee in silence, rationalizing to himself that he was okay. That was his favorite part: the rationalizing.

Most of the time, he just sat, wrote, and waved amicably at the strangers who acknowledged his presence. But, she…she was different. He saw her there regularly. They exchanged glances, even the occasional coy smile, but not once did they speak to each other. That was it. That was the extent of their relationship: an awkward dance of sheepish niceties. A glance here. A smile there.

Eventually, she broke the silence.

I see you here all the time. Figured I should at least get to know a bit about you.

She immediately shook her head in a subtle, nervous fashion, questioning to herself why she had said something so tired, so trite.

Well, my name’s Clark. And, I must really apologize to you for not introducing myself to you earlier. I tend to keep to myself.

His response was warm and kind, inviting almost.

She sat herself down in the open chair at his table.

I’m Emilia. It’s nice to finally be able to put a name to the face.

They both smiled and sat in each others company for a few moments, and it was in that moment, that very moment, that their relationship was perfect.

I’m going to be honest with you, Emilia.

The interest could be read on her face.

What we have now is perfect. It will only be downhill from here, and there’s only one way that this is going to end.

Her face changed to one of a confused intrigue. She had no idea where he was headed in the conversation, but she knew that she wanted to hear it.

I am only going to hurt you. Whatever this was going to be - friendship, something more - it will only end in the tragedy of you seeing me in a hospital bed. Tubes everywhere. The plug will be pulled, and you will see my body convulse as if the life within me is fighting desperately for its survival, for its last chance.

She could only sit there as tears slowly welled up in her eyes. She could see the pain in him, and it was a pain that she knew all too well.

My body will rise from the bed, giving you that small hope, one last sliver of hope, that I will be okay. But, that hope will be ripped from you in seconds as my body falls lifelessly back into the bed. The color will leave my motionless, broken body, and you will know that with the loss of color comes the loss of life. You will be in pain, more pain than you ever deserve. And, I cannot, with all of my heart, put that burden upon you, upon anyone. I do not want to hurt you like that.

She didn’t know what to say. Who would? And, after a moment, she got up and left.

They saw each other a week later. They shared glances, coy smiles. They both saw the pain in each other, and they both understood.

They never spoke again.

Down in the Valley

Though my childhood knows nothing of this place, this valley has become my home. I have roamed these trails long enough to know both of its beauties and of its dangers.  If you ever find yourself in these parts, I will gladly guide you, help you through its perils. But, I do not wish you to be here. I do not wish this place upon anyone, for this valley is carved by a river of sorrow.

Still, too many find themselves here. Some choose to travel here, while others are forced to these parts. Despite their origins, they all carry a burden, some larger than others. But, their effects remain the same. They all stagger. They all fall. They have yet to grow accustom to the weight that bears on them. But, I know these burdens well; I have carried them for as long as I can remember. If you find yourself here, I can shoulder your load. If you take my hand, I can help you find the path out of this place, up towards the mountaintops. But, this is where we must part. This valley is my home; I cannot leave it. This valley. This burden. They are all I have; they are all I know.

Perhaps one day, the mountains will beckon, call me by name. They will invite me to settle on their summits, to partake of the joy that they provide. But, today is not that day. I have grown too accustom to this place, to this valley, and to this river. The familiarity is too hard to abandon. There is safety in the nadir, comfort in the fact that one cannot plummet any deeper, plunge any further into the darkness. For now, this valley is my haven, my shelter. The river of sorrow continues to shape this valley, to shape me. And, the longer I stay here, the more apparent it becomes. The river no longer runs through just the valley, it runs through me.

Stamps

There was once a time when I believed that the saddest associations, the saddest bonds, were the ones that were held together solely by the adhesive of postage stamps.  They were nothing more than futile attempts to postpone the inevitable fate of all things good and beautiful: their end.  Every parcel, every exchange could only serve as a painful reminder of what once was, what is now dying, what will soon die.

But, I see that there is beauty in it.  I wish I knew how this came to be.  But, the idea that an association can be mended back together through the mere adhesive of stamps now brings me hope, for every stamp serves as a beacon, revealing the past shared moments of beauty, of love, and of comfort. 

There was once a time when I was capable of such things.  It’s getting harder and harder to remember what I once was able to do.  Sometimes, I need a little reminder.

*I’m basically saying that I want your addresses so that I can write you.

Old Haunts

As I boarded, I still had no idea what I would experience.  The abstract idea of seeing what he saw, of smelling, hearing, and living what he lived, floated in my mind.  But, one of my many weaknesses is merely having ideas; ideas that have done nothing more than exist in the abstract ether of my mind.

I’ve been to his city before. Still, both my legs and my heart wavered when I took that first step onto my father’s land, as if I were learning to both walk and love again.  In a way, I was. 

In seeking out his old haunts - his old neighborhood, the family store front, the school where he once taught - they brought to life a past that I never knew existed; they brought him back, if only for a moment.  I grasp for anything that can remind me of him now.  Time has a way of making you do that.  And, while the stories that arose added to the legend of my father in my mind, they filled me with regret, for I will never be able to hear them from him firsthand.  That is a pain that I will have to learn to live with.

Many have wished that my travels would be a time of healing.  And, to a certain extent, it has been (it has also been a time of gluttony, but I’ll save that for another time).  But, I feel that there are some wounds that do not heal, wounds that haunt.  And, that this too is a pain that I will have to learn to live with.

Ghosts

High above the buildings, above even the clouds, the ghosts of the ancestors lay. The world up here is vastly different, almost alien to what lies below.  Nestled in the quiet of the mountains, they call out and give their thoughts and advice, but none hear.  They lay there trapped, able to do nothing more than watch their progeny from afar. 

I wonder their thoughts, their opinions on what has become of their home.  Do they watch in horror or in awe as their childhood homes are transformed?  Are they filled with pride over how far they have come?  The slums and squatter houses have disappeared, and the reservoirs ensure that no rationing will occur again.  That must mean something to them.  Or, are they filled with loathing?  An ever developing culture of consumerism and materialism spreads throughout the citizens.  That must mean even more.

It must be torturous to watch your creation change before you.  All they can do is hope that their time on Earth, their teachings, have had an effect, have meant something.  That their words can still be heard.  It’s a shame though.  The ancestors have already forgotten their first lesson to their children: never believe in ghosts.

Life After Death

I remind her of him.  I must.  I can see it in her eyes: a tinge of sadness mixed with a sliver of hope. 

I was like him in so many ways, ways that have only made themselves known now that he’s gone.  Hong Kong to Murfreesboro.  Los Angeles to San Diego.  Both represent a longing to escape the crowds.  The restaurant work.  The bar tending.  The near constant feeling that we, as Chinese people, will never truly belong here in the States.  Those experiences, those sentiments we had are different, but they are the same.

She can see our lives running parallel, and it only reminds her that she’s lost him.  That we lost him.  But, he is still here.  His spirit is still alive.  It must be.  For, it is in me.

A Stillborn Legend

The school’s name changed.  The gates closed and locked.  With that, so too are the stories that were once contained within it.  Tucked away, never to be heard again.

A new history is created, one that neglects to include its former self.  As Moral Training English College fades into the forgotten realms of time, the stories of one of its former teachers, of my father, fades along with it.

There is sadness in the idea of a forgotten story.  That is why they must be told, no matter how insignificant they may seem.  A legend was neglected, malnourished, and allowed to die before it was even born.

The Art of Flight

As I’m sitting here, stricken with some strange cocktail of anxiety, nerves, and fatigue, I cannot help but to think.  To imagine.

I am here, privileged with being able to say that a 16 hour flight is not a novel idea - I’ve lost count of how many I’ve been on.  I even know what lies before me: family, a familiar city, and a culture that I can blend into if I truly wanted it.

But, as I sit here trapped in my seat and unwilling to let myself fall into my default habits on these types of trips - binging on the on-board movie selection - I can’t help but think about what my father was thinking on his first flight to the States.  Was he nervous?  He must have been.  Anxious?  Excited?  

I don’t know if I could have done it.  As much as I have been a wanderer in my short life, I’ve always done so with the knowledge that there was always an out for me if I grew tired of my journey.  If my interest waned, there would always be a way home, and there would be no repercussions for returning.

Establishing a new life?  Pioneering a trail for my future children?  My future wife?  It sounds like a weight that I could not carry.  I can’t even begin to imagine sitting for 16 hours with nothing but those thoughts and fears and anxieties running circles in my mind.  It would be overbearing for me, but privilege has made me weak.

To him, he was taking the plunge, diving headfirst into the unknown.  The more that I think about it, the more that I am convinced that this was not just a simple flight.  It was more than that.  It had to have been.  It was on this flight that he learned how to truly fly.

* This was written while on the plane.  I hope you got that.

**I am no longer on a plane.  I hope you got that too.

So It Begins

To see what he saw.  To smell and to hear and to live what he lived.  To explore how, even in the seemingly mundane, there are incredible stories at hand, stories that must be told.  This is why I travel.  This is why I write.  This is why I am excited.