Posted by: mting | 21st June, 2009

History

Everything is a history. Today when I lunched with my colleagues at an Ocean Park cafe, there they hanged an old Hong Kong Ren-Li-Che (人力車) on the wall. Though it is odd of hanging it on the wall, but anways, this Ren-Li-Che is a history.

Everyone is a history. From a baby, to a child, an adolescent, an adult then a senior… We left our history to people around us. Even an unforunate aborted child, who does not have chance to see the world, gives ‘feelings’ to their parents. Everything we do, we are asking the people around us to remember our history.

One month before my father passed away, he gave me my 5-years-old homework: “My Book”. This little “My book”, with a history of 23-year-old, got my handwriting on it, with me outlining my small hand, and telling the world where did I live, what was my weight, etc. I have no ideas how I did it. And at the same time, I was happy to know that “I like to eat” since I was five. 

I appreciated so much that my father has kept it for me. Then I found out that every birthday card and father’s day card have been kept by him at an iron biscuit box. I have forgotten that I loved sending cards to my parents. I thought they would have thrown him away. But they kept every single of it. How much do they treasure us?

Today I went to Oddone’s home for dinner and to share our wedding photos. During the visit, Oddone’s mother showed me the notes and writing by the child Oddone. The papers are yellow, and the writings are unfamiliar. The familiar thing to me is the organised way of presenting the data. And from the notes, I know why the Oddone is the ddone.  I flipped the notebook carefully, to see how the child Oddone wrote his notes. While I was flipping it, it seems that the child Oddone is writing them at the dining table in front of me.

I asked Oddone’s mother, “Could I bring them to US?”. 

“Oddone knows they are here at home. When he wants them back, he will come and get them!” Oddone’s mother smiled and put them back at their cupboard.

Deep inside from my heart, I know that one day we will keep the notes, and hope that we can pass them to our children, then our children pass them to our grand-children, together with my “My book”.

It’s how the history passed on…

(A blog which is too sentimenal — Probably it is the Father’s Day)

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