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Father
I opened my eyes, but there was nothing I could see, not even a glimpse of light in the whole place, all was mere blindness and coldness. Where was it? I hadno idea at all. Oddly enough, even though the place was covered by ominousdarkness, I did not fret; something inside of me told me that there was no needof it. However my brain insisted to work out what was actually happening, and soI tried to follow its order to focus my eyesight and scan through the surroundings.I stood up slowly, my body acted as vigilant as it could since my eyes were of nouse. I looked at my right and left and still found nothing. Then I decided to move,to walk, albeit I found my 43-year-old limbs were a bit numb, corroded by ages, Iassumed. Fantastically, as I took my first step, I just realized how it wasapparently light and easy. This was not like me—I felt younger. I walked fasterand ran, reassuring myself that they were really my feet and legs. It was thenwhen what my eyes just saw slapped me away from the incipient excitement inmy head.Around me, the pitch-black surroundings were no more. Instead there weresea of trees and hills. I was amazed, dumbstruck by the sudden beauty.Thousands of yellow, bell-like flowers swarmed around my feet. I knew them—tulips! Of course I did, I had been playing in father’s tulip farm since I was a littlegirl—when I still lived in Netherlands. The scene of the tulip field was picturesqueand fantastic. The crowns of the flowers were gorgeous, while the unique fragrantaroma of the flowers fueling my heart with joy and mirth. It was just like the oldtimes. When I thought of it, ever since I had moved to Singapore I never everhad had the chance to go back to my very home country; it had been more thanthirty years now. It was still vaguely in my mind how I had had that terrible rowwith my father and decided to go abroad. What was it about again? Strangely Icould not recall it.When I sat, still in my brown study, another surprise came out of the blue.Right beside the tulips field, there was this magnificently wide, extensive river,with an as magnificent bridge across it. What was more, beyond the river was myhometown Vilërooy, looked exactly the same as I saw it last time—all the crafty,handsome buildings in apple-pie order with windmills standing on the grassygreen slopes. It awoke my long-lost memory. Without any trace of hesitation Iran to the bridge, the nostalgic feelings inside of me burning and raging. Ithought of nothing but my old hometown. ‘Finally,’ I thought, ‘I am home…again,’ as I ran to the bridge.Then, as I just had stepped on the wooden bridge, I noticed a tall figurestanding on the bank at the other side of the river. I was shocked, but stillcomposed though, and I tried to examine the complexity on the face of thatelevated male.‘No, it can’t be,’ I said, the face in front of my eyes were oddly familiar. Itwas one I had used to see every morning in my early days.‘Papa?’ And I was right. It was indeed my father. The ever-shining face, thebulky limbs, the grandeur of his sheer smile, it was definitely him, just like lasttime. I tried to run faster, but every step was getting heavier until I could notcatch up my breath; it was like I got older at every step I made. I had finallyremembered it. All this time I would always like to call my father to say sorry butI never had. The guilt had slowly deposited and finally hidden in the deepestcorner of my heart. But now the chance had come. As memories burst out andtears flow down uncontrollably on my cheek, I tried to reach him, all I wantedwas to say sorry. Suddenly he raised his pale palm. His smile had vanished. Couldit be that he was still angry?‘Angela, go back. Now,’ he said with composure, though I could hear thevoice reached my eardrums like thunders.
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