Taiwan in Our Hearts

Southern lions JUMP, TWIST, FLY through the air. GLORIOUS colours of royal purple, white and gold.  The rythmic drummings BEAT PULSATING around the CROWDED FESTIVE room. The gong SOUNDS DEEP and the cymbals CRASH. LAUGHTER, SMILES, TEARS.  Family, friends - here and gone.  Hands CLAP, feet TAP.  EXCITEMENT felt as it THRUMS and SURROUNDS you.  DELUCTIBLE smells waft by, dish after dish is presented, colours of the rainbow.  SALTY, SWEET, RICH and EXOTIC.  Mouths water, drinks flow.  Draws, prizes - WIN!  HAPPY songs, BITTERSWEET songs, MELODIOUS voices and ODIOUS. Screens flash and bodies SWAY. GOSSIP GOSSIP. KARIOKE!!! RED, RED everywhere. Darling plum blossom.

Happy Centennial Taiwan.  You are in our hearts, whether we are here, there, or elsewhere.

Alone

All have left and he lies awake in bed as he does each night. The lights are turned off, and only the nightlight shines dimly in the inky surroundings. The sheets are tucked in and his fingers peep out just over the top. Freshly washed and dressed by one of the few devoted, he cannot move on his own, so he lies there, lies there. Fragile, vulnerable. His head, resting on pillows that he cannot adust. Completely alone until morning. The walls are bare, painted the hues of a typical hospital ward. The marks of previous inmates scarring their surface. There is not alot of room for personal objects in this no man's land between home and his destiny, should he be so lucky. A few pictures, a small vase of flowers. His untouched dinner remains on the bedside table, no appetite. The forgotten. Laughter, sunshine - again snuffed out when his loved ones had to go home, home to where his heart is. His visitors dwindled in number as the months go by. Life goes on and he is no longer present, no longer visible. He screams, but few hear. He cries, but few care. He is alone, alone in the dark of this sterile institution. When the devoted few are there, his soul lights up, lit from within, grateful for warmth, for attention. Staff scurry by, too busy to talk and too few to care. So he stares, stares intently into the dark, watching the wall clock - tick, tock. Second by second, he counts the moments until he no longer has to be alone. He won't complain.  Does not express how sad he feels.  He knows how upset the few already are at having to leave his side each day. The silence echoes. The darkness crushes. Alone.

In Memory of Ducky

I am starting this blog site in memory of my father, Wen Han Huang (a.k.a. Allen Wong, formerly a resident of New Glasgow, Nova Scotia), who passed away on January 14, 2009.  Ducky always wanted me to continue to write, something I long lost the time and heart for.  It is my first attempt at a blog, so I ask what followers I have to be patient with me.  I do, however, promise to write only from my heart.  I hope, for you, this is enough.  It is for me.