Wednesday, 15 February 2012


"What is this?"
"A mosquito bite."
"Why did you let a mosquito bite her?"

My grandfathers loved me. There was my mum's father, who bought me egg tarts every time I went to visit him. He's the reason why I love egg tarts - it's the one special thing that always reminds me of my grandfather. He passed away in 1996. For the past 12 years there's only been one person I've been able to call my grandfather, my paternal one. But my dad's father is in the hospital right now, and I don't know if his condition is critical... if he's still unconscious. He's aged a lifetime in the past few years.

There are pictures that pop into my head in polaroid-like flashes when I think about my grandfather. The pen he always keeps in his shirt pocket. His grey-white hair that he combs back neatly with that small white comb every time he gets dressed. How I used to want to sleepover in my grandparents' house when I was little, but wound up crying in the middle of the night and my grandfather had to take me home to my parents. How he laughed on the phone when he called to tell me that I broke his bed when I led my troop of cousins to jump up and down on it, except it didn't break until my grandparents climbed into bed that night. He was never angry at me, never annoyed... I was always his first and favourite grandchild. I'm the one he wants to protect from being bitten by mosquitoes.