My Dad

Sometimes, words are easier written than spoken. For one, you don't have to do it face to face. You don't have to concern yourselves with how he feels, at least at the moment the words are conjured. The feared awkward silence is non-existent.

When I was a shy little boy, I was glued to my mum. The Sunday's ritual for the family of six (I have three elder sis) comprised of visiting my grandma. Each time, as I tied my shoe and bid my fond farewell to grandma, my aunties would tease me, saying mum was leaving without me. And each time, I would fall for it, crying my heart out. I know, it is unbelievable, but somehow it never failed to work. My aunties - they are a raucous branch all these years, but I enjoy their company all the same.

The furthest back that my memories could bring of my dad remains written in an old photograph. It shows the two of us at the now-defunct NCO club at Beach Road. He had one hand on my shoulder as I stood just below his waist, wearing a purple collared-shirt and close-chopped hair. With my eyes squinting in the sun, my expression was one of discomfort. It was not just the humidity then. We were just not close. At that time, he was seldom home, or perhaps my eyes were not opened to his existence. We just failed to cultivate the ability to talk like father and son. And the line of males in the family being introverts does not help. But the wonder of being a kid is that you are concerned about cartoons and toys more than anything else.

At one point, I was lured or rather bribed into some sort of relationship with my dad. Lego, Playmobil and all kind of toy guns or swords were the order of the day. One day, dad even came back from work like a swordsman in a Chinese Kung-fu movie with a toy sword sticking out of his back. But still, through all these years, I don't really feel I know my dad.

Nowadays, dad is a white-haired old man, retired and enjoys an occasional trip to Singapore pool to place bets on EPL. And thanks God for soccer and the invention of television, for that seems to be the only language we speak these days. Customarily, we watch the matches on Saturdays, and we would talk soccer - about the odd, the players and the games. Sometimes, when I prefer to lock myself in my room, he would sit alone in the dark with only the TV on. And on my toilet break, I would take a peep at the score accompanied by his short commentary. Seeing him sitting in the dark makes me think of how he has aged over the years. The corners of his eyes etched with crow's feet, the skin on his neck all loosened and wrinkled. But mum said the distinct charmer's features of his face have remained from his younger days. And I totally agree.

PS: Sometimes, I feel that not many words are needed between people; just a common language. Then again, blood as always, is thicker than water (you saw that coming, don't you?).