This is just a regular blog/ journal entry that is pretty long but you might enjoy it.
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On Victoria Day I woke up early by my father swinging open my door announcing to me that I should get up in a not-so-indoor-voice. I moaned, embraced a fetal position underneath my covers. Irritated that he barely knocked the door I attempted to go back to sleep, knowing that I would eventually have to rise. My brother entered my room asked if I needed morning essentials taken out of the bathroom that we share together. Of course I have things, I listed off them: tooth brush, tooth paste, contacts, cup. “I’ll just leave the bathroom open,” he left. A few minutes I entered the shower groggy and irritated, grabbed my essentials and showered in my mom and dad’s bathroom (which has a stand-in shower and a tub).
Stepping into the high powered stream of water reminded me of how I missed my apartment back at school. I couldn’t believe what I was saying, that shower seriously sucked–the shower head leaked, the toilet got clogged, the door knob locked by itself, the toilet stall door quite literally snapped off it’s metal hinges. Let’s just say that campus events had plenty of calls. The phantom fixer always left a friendly note after his/her repairs. But I missed it because you could adjust the flow of water, and because I was thinking about being “environmental” I wanted less pressure and therefore less consumption.
After my shower in the stand-in, I dried, changed into shorts and a T-shirt after checking the weather conditions for today. A black Switchfoot T-shirt which I got from a concert back in 2004, with stains from the painting the school in Peru. I contemplated throwing it into the rubbish bin but it has sentimental value and cost more than a $10 cd they sold at the concert. And shorts will have to accompany it, cargos I wore to Peru as well.
The kitchen/ meal area downstairs was filled was chit-chat from my verbose mother and father. Arguing about past habits about talking in a loud voice while someone was sleeping (this was me and my mother to my father, if it makes it sounds better arguments happen almost daily between my mother and father). It was like “Everybody Loves Raymond” sans the humor, my older brother taking defense with dad, offense against mother. Dad and older brother decide to wait in the car, while I grab my mp3 player with world blocking ear phones. This is how I deal with situations like this, because adding any feedback is like a lego man trying to stop a car.
I enter the car, plug in my ear phones, feeling a little guilty about it. Brand New, Radiohead, and Coldplay entertain me for the ride. I pull out one ear phone now and again listening to conversation: all in Cantonese 60% understandable 40% jibberjabber After 40 mins or so we pull into a tight parking lot. The “Stua loaw” or tea house is not nearly as filled as we thought it would be. My mother who already entered a couple seconds before already found a table near the entrance of the kitchen. The restaurant is filled with Chinese people, old people browsing papers, families with young fidgety children. The metal carts pushed by chinese women who could look like my mother are calling out the foods. Unfortunately they don’t have much variety today. This place has history with my family. My grandmother use to eat with us here, before she passed away. But today was the first dent on our shining history, they barely served any of the usual dim sum.
After a disappointing meal, we drove to my aunt’s house in the town of Whibby in Oshawa. Picture a typical suburban neighborhood with cloned houses. My sister and I got lost here when we visited from the U.S. years ago. We went out for a morning walk only to find a hundred houses exactly identical. After much searching, we found the right house, with the award for “best garden.” A four foot tall red maple and sharply trimmed garden sits in front of her house.
I ring the door bell and Tony, my 40 year old bachelor cousin greets us. He’s in shorts in a slightly holey T-shirt near the neckline and the pits. He just got up. He welcomes us and I see Gu Ma (Aunt) and Uncle Norman. They look like they haven’t changed a bit. We bring them gifts: “Bow” (Chinese buns filled with tasty meaty filling or veggies.) We explore her equally amazing garden in the backyard, walking sock footed on the stone tiles. Not as bloom-filled as I last time I came. But it is still a beautiful day. After eating this sticky rice mix wrapped in banana leaves, my dad, my mom, and my brother talk about their current lives and updates. Even after a meal, Gu Ma and Nucle Norm insist that we eat. So I eat. They talk about me in Chinese, I respond a little in Chinese and in English, talking a little about my Peru trip. We eat a sweet cake filled with fresh strawberries.
After much conversation, it’s almost time for us to visit my grandmother and grandfather in the grave yard. We bought purple daisies from a grocery store near my house. My dad insists that my aunt should help us get there. We follow her to the burial ground, my dad trying to memorize the directions. Our cars pull into a shady area next to an acre or so of land. The graves are flat metal engravings on the ground. I walk ahead, trying to remember where the Grandma and Granddad are buried. It’s near the stone Murial of the Lord Supper I know. I can’t spot it but they find it. Fake flowers and real flowers are already in the cup on the grave. We prune the bottom of the long flowers and make room for them in the cup. After we say a prayer and leave.
Contemplative Writing 