enfolded // two: sending a letter into the air.

a few words to the grandpapa I never had the chance to meet but know fully in my heart.

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On the subject of distance, you and I would both have much to say. We are, after all, the most distanced of them all— we’ve never met. 

You left before I had the chance to arrive, before my mum grew into herself, before your time. You could have greeted me in my container through the glass. I could have held onto your large fingers. Perhaps my eyes, which are my mothers’ eyes, might’ve met yours and we could’ve said hello— grand papa, you’re a grand papa, my gung gung. 

Hello.

We’ve never met before but I feel that I already know you. There’s a tiny square photo of you sitting with one leg up, arm draped over, on mum’s desk. It’s a desk we share these days— so in a way, you and I also share a desk. You’re wearing a flowing white shirt and I think of all the photos I’ve seen of mum wearing loose fitted shirts in skinny jeans. A piece of your handwritten letter from West Berlin is framed large in our entrance hall. Missing my four daughters, you’ve written. 

When mum speaks of you, she always starts with your handwriting. Her stories of your words are always accompanied by her mimicking  your characters in the air. She never forgets to place emphasis on the downward motion of your firm lines. The way your lines are not so much lines but breathing manifestations— intentional. Nothing about you is half-hearted. This, I can tell. You write yourself into your own characters. She draws you into the air for me. 

Memories of you have never been mine, but I feel them seeping into me as punctuation marks. Your words, as spoken through my mother, have reached me despite all our distance— nurtured me, and most importantly grounded me in ways I wish you knew. Mum never tries to paint a bigger portrait of you than what she simply knows of you— she has a lot of questions she wishes she could ask you. But here’s the simple reason for why I trust her account: mum is a natural reader of people, an embodiment of empathy which allows her to see people for who they really are inside. She is, also, you.

Some things I know about you. I know the creases in your eyes, the fullness of your smile, the thickness of your hands around a daughter’s waist, the stylish belt you paired with those wide legged trousers from a photograph in the 40s. I know you’re the eldest sibling in a large family. I know you worked as a translator during the war. I know you ran an electronics company that often sent you across to Europe, gave you a terrifying kind of temper in the office— exhausted you. I know that when your daughters came to visit you at work, they watched you from afar, catching glimpses of you through the gaps in the doors, simultaneously in awe and in fear. You were authoritative, commanding, blunt, with an elaborate knowledge base for swear words. I know how such Cantonese phrases strike— I think I would have cowered, had you been my boss. I know you kept your desk in spit spot condition, placed all your items in familiar exactness. Mum says she remembers moving your things around playfully and you spotting their off-centre placement instantly— who touched my stuff? I know that when it was time to leave work, you’d walk the long route and buy yourself several newspapers, allow yourself a stroll in the evening quiet, alone. I know that despite the intensity of your work, you had your wife and your four daughters in mind, always. I’ve heard that you always rang the bell three times before entering. The lights all turning on the minute you came through— that’s how they all knew you were truly home. I can imagine your home coming to life behind your heels— the audible sighs and the warmth that spreads across your own chest when you return to your own.

Contrast. The man you were at work seems to have been entirely different from the man you brought home to your wife and daughters. I wonder at this polarity, not because I don’t believe you or think less or more of you because of it, but I wish I could see you for myself. I despise judging a person from another’s point of view, even my own mother’s. How is it that a man known for his familial warmth could also be so formidable in public?

You’re the man who bought four sets of stamp albums for your four girls. You’re the man who taught them how to see a thing through— to fill these albums and commit to the process of their preparation. You’re the man who planted in them a natural curiosity and discipline through worldly pictograms. We have two of mum’s albums here in Paris. I’ve flipped through each and every page, touched your dymo label of my mother’s name on the front cover. I can almost hear you say— this is yours now, take ownership and good care of it and see this through.

Through. There’s a cabinet directly next to the front door of your flat. You come home and four sets of school report cards are laid out along the top shelf, ready for your inspection. Mum’s nervously sweating while you peruse each. I’m sure you know that she was never the best at school— and yet you were always fair in your applause. You would reward a couple pennies for every point of progress, drawing margin notes addressed directly to each. You never rewarded based on the number of top marks. You always knew what each daughter possessed individually— my mum and her art, the eldest and her love of food. You always warned the second sister to reign in her arrogance. You nurtured the youngest’s love of reading. Praise, for you, had larger significance beyond academic ability. 

This is you. Round table meetings for when one daughter did wrong. All four in attendance even if you weren’t involved. You would sit with one hand on either knee, back straight, feet firm on the ground. Learn the lesson all the same, confront the issue together, recognise exactly what was wrong together. You would insist on an essay from the wrongdoer. You would make the other three watch. You would insist that the essay be laid out on the cabinet for all the see. Humility and confrontation. There’s too many people in this world who too easily brush things under the carpet, let time do the non-apologising.

This is you. You bought an Audi because the logo is a set of four circles, rings entwined. On your long walks after work, you would buy four Chupa Chups and lightly knock each girl on their head when you gave them out at home. You called them gwung gwung tong for this reason. You would set about polishing everyone’s pair of shoes. No one ever asked you to, but it was always a natural offer of yours. In the morning, you would lay each pair out by the entrance hall in perfect alignment. You wanted your girls to read Little Women. I’ve seen your carefully chosen Hallmark birthday cards— mum keeps them all in a little translucent plastic wallet in a box among her craft materials. When I asked her about them, she knew exactly where to retrieve them from. It seems she keeps them close. She remembers how you would tell her the story behind the card— your reasoning, the little passage of poetry that spoke to you and made you think of her. 

This is you. You’re stood on the balcony of your home staring outwards into the winding streets of the Mid-level neighbourhoods. You’re stood with arms and chest exposed, the clarity of your rashes a secret to the sky. Perhaps here, you’ve got your pipe in one hand, eyes closed. I can see you, just about. You would never wear short sleeves. Not even on the beach. Not even when the heat was stifling. We always respected this as fact— papa never went into the water, papa would wave from the shore. She tells me of your loyalty to Pear Soap. She has the sound of you cracking peanuts in front of the television set engrained in her mind. She tells me of your insistence to appear in the local trade directory every year without fail— you believed in a customer loyalty built from consistency and dependability. When you do business, the most important thing is trust. Mum has these words of yours vivid in her mind. She tells me of the gold Parker pen always slotted into your shirt pocket. Even on family outings, casual weekends, a short walk around town. She tells me how each daughter would take turns promenading with you to the central post office. These ritualistic walks of growing up beside papa, of having one-to-one time with papa, between darkened colonial arches and even after the building was modernised. The post office and papa— these two are items intertwined. She remembers so many important conversations on these walks— but these stories are not mine to tell. 

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your evening programme: peanuts, a stack of newspapers, a lidded glass of tea.

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I have not known your voice— mum can only tell me so much of your booming quietude. The kind of voice everyone pauses to listen to. Authority matched with something infinitely intimate. I wish I knew it. I wish there was some recording of you. I, too, want to hear you fall into song— full operatic— around the living room, pulling your wife into dance. I want to hear your exhale out, the smoke from your pipe rising. I want to watch your profile from the backseat of a Beetle taking the winding roads out to rocky beaches— tunes of Los Panchos sending eye-rolls to four squashed daughters in the back. On a whim, mum and I decided to find these tunes again. At each first bar of every piece, she could tell exactly which ones were yours and which are strangers— these songs which were the anthems of a father, so iconic and memorable even decades later. I find it remarkable that the Spanish language will always have something to do with your legacy— you, a local Hong Konger who never set foot in Spain, let alone Latin America. 

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Life nurtures inexplicable birthmarks. Strange equations of what carries over. Do you see how you continue through us? Gung gung, our names are Nicholas and Jasmine. We are siblings, six years apart. Our Chinese names follow your legacy of nature. If mum is snow, we are the tall white birches of Sweden and a warm Spring sun. By nature, we are firm statements of your values. Standing by our names was a battle for mum. She fought for us as mother nature does against the rising heat— of course, she still does. Perhaps you’ve been watching us grow all this time. How many borders have you crossed to find us?

He’s tall, with an exactness of your features that struck mum dumb when we placed a photo of him next to yours. The width of your noses and the straightness of your wide smiles, the slight further distance between your eyes that gives you a shared countenance. It wasn’t just your eldest daughter who caught your dimples after all. 

He’s fluent in Spanish, with a strong instinct for home there. The language and the country speaks to him in ways I can’t quite pinpoint. Perhaps he’ll read something to you one of these days? He plays jazz on both trumpet and piano— can you imagine the number of duets you could enjoy together? Perhaps you will sing. Perhaps we chose the trumpet to reach you loud and clear. Close your eyes and listen to our little ensembles. Do you like the clarinet? It’s softer than the trumpet, but it’s grounded, warm. Perhaps we can encourage my Yee Yee, your youngest, to play the cello with us. We’ll form an orchestra across oceans just for you. 

He’s doing all the things you love and maybe would loved to have done. He’s quiet but he’s firm, Nicholas— when he works, he works with a fearsome diligence that cannot be disturbed. When mum and I dance a silly dance in the hall, he tells us to shut it. But when he plays, he really does know how to play— he’s a map reader, a lover of difficult problems that beckon to be solved, he has the concentration and nimbleness to debone sardine after sardine. Once we went to Seville and mum insisted he taste oxtail stew because it’s your favourite— and he loves it. He has a pinch of your austere seriousness and your visceral joy. Perhaps I understand you better, through him. I’ve heard that you used to laugh so hard while watching Eight is Enough and Sesame Street your set of teeth popped out— Nicholas is going to be a dentist. I can imagine you sharing all your stories with him and sending him to tears of laughter— both your widest smiles, ablaze. I’ve heard you always asked your daughters to play chess with you and they begrudgingly would, for you— but Nicholas would, wholeheartedly, with all his tender directness. I can just about picture the two of you in deep focus sitting cross-legged on the floor and hushing everyone who passes by. 

I know where my love of words comes from— it must be you. Mum and dad were never avid readers and yet I found my way. I want to ask you what your favourite books are. What were the books you wished you had time to wade through? Yee Yee showed me your handwritten note to her inside Little Women— I couldn’t keep my eyes off your signature. I want you to read to me. I want to be five years old sitting next to you, listening to your voice, and feel that for once, I have a true grandparent who calls me by my name. I want you to write my name out a thousand times on paper just so I can admire your strokes. I wish you could’ve taught me calligraphy and Cantonese. Perhaps I might have held a stronger hold on my mother’s tongue had I realised it was also yours. I think of my own lines here, the way I’ve naturally felt most at home when I’m pushing a black pencil deep into the page. The result is bold, blunt, and vulnerable. Have I somehow drawn something of yours?

I wish you could see this all for yourself— the surrealism of our similarities.

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— Confront your mistakes. Nicholas was two when he threw his cup onto the floor. Who threw the cup onto the floor? It was you, bibi, wasn’t it? Say you did it and say you’re sorry, bibi. Which hand did you throw it with?

— Don’t ever lie to me, Jasmine. You will lose all my trust. Tell me the truth.

— You mustn’t lean when you can stand with two feet firm against the floor.

— Draw your lines and remember your limits.

— Know when to say no. Do not let them take you for their own. Remember the ground you stand on. Remember your dignity, your innermost warmth, your bold vulnerability.

— 身在福中不知福— treasure what you have. There is no free lunch. There is no short cut. Stop itching for what others have. It’s going to be hard work but if you’ve said you’re in it for the long run, commit to the journey.

— Relationships are built on trust. Don’t compromise yourself for anything or anyone.

— Do what you say and mean it. Ground your words with action. Keep your promises.

All this— this is the extent to which you have left an imprint on my mother. Your courage is strong and somehow still stronger is our commitment to your story and your values. I write to you, though you have no address. But I’m thinking of writing my words out and attaching this to yours which hang in our entrance— perhaps a remnant of your touch will wrap around mine. Perhaps we will know each other a little better this way? Perhaps I will stand on my balcony, link arms with the same sky that also skimmed your chest, and read my letter to you, gung gung.

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