In 2003, my uncle died at the age of 51, after an eleven-year-long battle with diseases caused by a type of liver parasites.
He was supposed to leave us eight years earlier, according to the doctors. But with the determination to accompany his children into adulthood, he struggled on, fighting for every breath, every step. The parasites caused severe swelling of internal organs. Often, there was so much built-up fluid in his belly that he could easily fill a half-liter bottle with the liquid extracted. But even in these occasions, he never left his work. Through work, he felt that he fulfilled his duties as a citizen, and earned his family the support they needed. He wanted to contribute as much as possible to the nation that he loved with a stubborn, ferocious passion; and that was what he did.
He did not leave his work until he could see imminent death waving ahead of him. My aunt took him to Shenzheng, where his daughter lived, to say goodbye to his children. My parents and I joined them about one month after he was hospitalized. It was the only time I went to bid the final farewell to a person whose life was vivd to me.
When I saw him, he was lying on the hospital bed, so sallow and gaunt that I almost did not recognize him. His hair had turned completely grey. I tried to take his hand, but he moved it away before I could touch him.
Soon after we sat down, he began to cry, mumbling incoherent words of repentance as he did. Saying sorry was his priority now. He wanted to apologize for every mistake he knew he had made before he left. That included to me: he was sorry, tremendously sorry, that he had failed to keep up his promise to take me to catch crawfish.
I had already clean forgotten that promise.
Not much attention was paid to me, unlike what I was used to. Nobody smiled much. I attempted to cheer up my soon-to-be-widowed aunt by pulling her along in my attempt to steal the fruits from the decorative kumquat trees at the hospital gates. The raid was a success. We returned to the ward with stuffed pockets, still giggling with excitement, and shared our loot. The intense sourness made our eyes water before the real tears had to come.
Years later, as I see it now in my memories, the smile never fully reached my aunt’s eyes as we laughed on our way back to the ward. There was always the lingering shadow of death in the back of her pupils. When uncle died eventually, two days after we left, part of her died with him. Part of our relationship died, too. Without uncle there to maintain harmony and rationality, she could begin to act solely upon her own whims. Then things deteriorated to where they are today. I have not spoken to her for three years and four months.
I miss her. But she will never be whom she was to me again, not just because she had changed, but also because my vision is no longer blurred by innocence in the same way it did, eight years ago.
I never went to see uncle after his death. His ashes are now kept in a funeral house in Shenzheng, visited merely once, twice each year.
I wonder what things would have been like if he had lived to today. I am more inclined to believe that our relationship would have fallen apart, as our relationship with all other relatives.
Constantly I repeat this question to myself, “Why things worsened instead of going better?”
One thing is certain: the issues stem from our difference in nature in some fundamental aspects. We are far from great human beings; but we are always consciously trying to become better. Few others in my family does this.
Today I still do not have a clear answer. But I will keep thinking. Maybe tomorrow I will have an answer, maybe the day after tomorrow...what is certain is that someday, I will.
Comparing that with no reflection, you shall see what makes us different from the rest of our family.
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