So it’s 5pm EST, which is 6am in Manila. I’m wrapping up my laptop and calling it a day. Disconnect my VPN, shut down my Outlook, and open up my Google Reader.
Goodie! Texas Blue Bonnet has a new post!
I totally walked right into that one. Next time, Csquared, give a gay a warning, k? The gays need AT LEAST 10 minutes with some kind of energy drink to muster up the wherewithall for a crying hissy fit. Besides, I am NOT always prepared with waterproof Mascara! And it’s too early for Halloween to use “I’m trying on The Joker look” as a legitimate excuse.
Anyhoo, that had me thinking about my Nana, who gave me vampire blood instead of medicine when I got sick.
…was poor. My Poppy was a banished prodigal son from his native China. They didn’t have a lot. My mom remembers having to weave fans and little mats to sell in order to help bring food to the table. My uncle remembers making a toy car from a plastic baby powder bottle, turned on its side, and bottle caps stuck on twigs as wheels. Nana and Poppy essentially lived off the kindness of Poppy’s “patients”. See, Poppy was the village shaman-slash-witch-doctor-slash-chiropractor. Although he never asked for anything in return, he was always rewarded in kind.
When my parents left for an assignment in South Africa, I was left with Nana. And she took great pains to keep me alive, as apparently even then I was a sequined, spinning top. She called me LoveLove, because just once wasn’t enough.
When the Operation Desert Storm commenced, I was shipped out of our home in Jeddah and sent back to Nana. By then, I had grown accustomed to living in airports and a life of privilege: having traveled to more countries than I had teeth in my mouth. Nana was in her 50s, had switched to being a Vegan, and was starting to see Jabba The Hut everywhere (turns out it was a cataract). Little did she know that Operation Storm After Dessert had commenced, but she bravely soldiered on: chasing a rambunctious 7-year old who had a tendency to put on a cape, not to play superman, but to sing aloud the entire track of The Phantom of the Opera.
She switched diets, let me feel the cool metal parts in her hip replacement, fed me, bathed me, nursed me back to to my state of effervescent glory every time something bit me in the ass – medically or emotionally… She was my rock.
And I should be hers, but she doesn’t recognize me anymore.
Her eagle eyes have clouded over into an opaque mass.
Her soft skin has betrayed her, sticking to her wire-thin frame.
Her gorgeous head of dark, wavy hair is now nothing but a few ethereal white strands.
Her strong hands are shaking quietly in her lap.
She sits and stares out her window for hours.
Wondering when LoveLove would take time out of his busy job to visit her.
But when I hold her hand she pulls away from the touch of a stranger.
I thought I could end this post with something funny and witty to say.
I was wrong.