By Lydia Wong

I saw you walking away from the school playground, I called you as loud as I could, but you didn’t hear me. I realised that I couldn’t make any noise no matter how hard I tried. So I chased after you. I ran and ran, but then I saw I wasn’t actually running, I was merely standing on the same spot. A flickering screen stood between you and me. I couldn’t reach you…

It was a sunny Monday morning and we were holding each other’s hands walking down the warm humid street. I was 6 years old and it was my first day at primary school. We stopped at the Kwong Fai café where you had your favourite—coffee with condensed milk and buttered toast. Do you remember Mama, you told me it was going to be fun to meet new friends and to learn new things? I must have looked overwhelmed because you touched my face and swirled my hair, which was draping in front of my face, and put it behind my ears. I remember your gracious smile and the fine dimples on your face.

After a short walk from the café, we arrived in front of a blue Portuguese colonial building, which would be my school for the next 12 years. The place was filled with cheerful students and attentive parents, but I grasped you tightly as if I was going to be sent away to an orphanage. You gently squeezed my hand to reassure me that everything was going to be fine. I reluctantly let go of your soft, warm hand and nervously said ‘goodbye’. I was staring at your back as you walked out of the classroom. Do you remember Mama, I ran after you, because someone took my seat while I went to the restroom and I wasn’t brave enough to speak out? My body sunk into your warm embrace in the playground and you consoled me and urged me to be brave, to stand up for myself. It was always the motto that you told us all, every single one of your children, to be strong, kind and loving. You said if we possess these three basic elements, we would be happy and successful in our lives.

Mama, you were always so kind and gentle. You encouraged us to be curious, to follow our dreams, to work hard in school. You had never gone to school yourself and didn’t know how to read. When you finally had the time when we were all grown up, you taught yourself. I remember how you always sat on the balcony, wearing your oversized reading glasses which made your eyes look enormous, reading your newspapers slowly and patiently. We were all very proud of you because you showed us determination and achievement. You were so proud when I won the fourth place of the ‘Macau Young Women Writers’ contest’. You told me that I was a good writer and you trusted that I would succeed if I worked hard. Being one of the winners was the biggest achievements of my teenage life, I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement and faith. I regret that I have never told you that and that I never thanked you for believing in me.

We respected you immensely Mama, because you were grateful even though you lived an exhausting life. You brought up seven children and looked after our fastidious father. You stood all day and every day in our small, sun-drenched kitchen, surrounded by little pots of Chinese five spice, Szechuan pepper corns, whole star anise and other spices, as well as dried Shiitake, dried shrimps and fish maw, white wood ears and golden daylily in bags that were hanging on the wall, cooking us delicious food, because that was what made you happy. You were always so confident in the kitchen, a sprinkle of this and a pinch of that, like a magician performing a magic trick, and moments later, delectable dishes would appear on our dinning table triumphantly. You were the best cook I have ever met, you taught me how to cook and, most importantly, to love food. I remember vividly how you taught me to cook your speciality—slow-cooked whole duck stuffed with yellow split peas, glutinous rice, lotus seeds, shiitake mushroom and dried shrimps. And you showed me patiently how to make the stuffing, and finally to sew the opening together with cooking thread again before steaming it for about an hour and a half until the meat is incredibly tender, and produces the most amazing juice, which we children would fight for, pouring it gloriously over our steaming jasmine rice. I often dream of cooking with you, in that very kitchen, surrounded by those heart-warming aromas that remind me of you. I am sad that I have never thought of writing down your recipes, and now when I crave your cooking, I can only hope to recreate the taste you mastered.

One morning, I saw you sleeping soundly in your bed. I reached out and touched your black, soft permed hair and wanted to wake you up because it was time to go to school. But you didn’t stir, even though I was screaming ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ Then I woke up in sweat and tears in my tiny room in London…

It was the year when you left this world, a year and a half after I moved to London. Nothing had hit me that hard before, my world was shattered before me. Not only did I lose you and everything that you were to me, but also my heart chokes with tremendous guilt because I wasn’t there for you. I have been carrying this guilt around for the past 19 years, and probably will for the rest of my life.

I want to tell you that I wasn’t frustrated with you, when you fell ill again just months before I left for London. I was just confused and felt powerless to help you. I know sometimes my reactions upset you, and believe me, I feel so bad about this now. Mama, if you can read this, will you come visit me in my dreams one night and tell me that you forgive me? Remember you told me once that I was a talented writer? I keep thinking that writing to you might be the only way to keep you close to me. And perhaps one day, it will allow me to finally let go of my unspeakable guilt.