My Memoir

I loathed Monday, Wednesday, and Friday most when I was in primary school. During these alternate days, my sisters and I dashed home from school, because we had to finish homework as soon as possible before dinner.

Once at home, we sprawled our homework on the only card table, scribbling all the way through. The wall clock’s tick-tack filled the room, interrupted occasionally by the guffaw of children playing outside in the corridor.

At 6:30, the door squeaked open, followed by heavy footsteps.

My younger sister rushed to the doorway, my elder sister got up to fill a glass of water, and I fetched a pair of slippers—my father’s.

Having duty during the previous twenty-four hours at the fire station, my father returned with a pair of red eyes from no sleep. Even so, he started his rituals: stacking up the week’s newspapers, sweeping the floor for a single spot of dirt, and picking on who had left a glass on the table. By the time my elder sister was summoned, my younger sister and I would keep silent and slip away to the farthest distance from the scene; still, our ears remained open.

That night’s climax was coming—homework evaluation.

Holding my latest homework and those of the highest grade in my hand, I waited quietly, but with utmost alertness, in the only little room.

“Fung Hoi Chung, let me have a look at your homework,” my father ordered.

I emerged from the dimmed little room, walked up, facing my father sitting under the radiant fluorescent lights.

“This is the one..,” the last syllable dissolved in a second. My younger sister was watching television giggly on the sofa. My elder sister had a long face after being scolded for her low grades. I stealthily caught glimpses of Father’s look; his eyebrows were raised at the beginning, his cheeks became relaxed, and then he spoke.

“Quite good.”

What a relief.

The next day, our great moment returned. After homework, we flipped over the card table and blanketed it with bath towels, transforming it into our “ship.” Taking turns, my younger sister and I were crammed into it as “passengers” with my elder sister pushing hard at the back as a “sailor.” The flipped table, tilted and shabby, crawled slowly on the floor sprinkled with bath powder. “Boot, boot!” Singing, laughter, and television commercials livened up the whole apartment. The air was filled with fragrance and fresh with pleasure until bedtime.

“Free of Father” day was the freest day.

One night, we chased after each other as usual. Minute by minute, I could barely breathe. I stopped and sucked in air through my narrowing nasal passages, while a hissing sound tunneled through my ears, throat, and mouth. My mother put her hand on my forehead; stunned, she yelled, “Oh, my God!” I was rushed to the hospital immediately.

I was diagnosed with asthma.

From then on, I ate no snacks or cold drinks but inhaled one capsule of acrid white powder every day. Worse still, my weekdays’ duties were extended to weekends; I had to join my father’s physical training every Sunday.

While the sun glistened, I had been running uphill on the gray cement road for half an hour. Sweat melted and blurred my sight of greens and blues. Heavy heartbeats and loud pants interchanged, ringing hard in my ears. Most of that morning, I found myself alone on that ten-mile track. Chasing after my father, who was reduced to a tiny spot, I pressed myself to run fast for fear of getting lost.

For months, I followed, kept on track, and began recovering. But I earned a pair of muscular legs I hated.

One day that year, we were on our way to dinner. We were standing at the corner, waiting for the traffic light to turn from red to green.

“Hold my hand,” my father said.

I was startled. My younger sister was not standing beside him. He was talking to me.

The sight of honking cars, my mother, and my sisters dimmed. I was quivering.

It was the first time my father asked me to hold his hand.

The world silenced, and the road became soft. I was gliding along and focusing my eyes on how my feet moved. Secret tears were running down through nose, and I swallowed.

His hand was warm, rugged with scars. It enveloped my hand totally.

At the age of eight, I realized I was his daughter.