Seven years on
"Who was the one who came over to tutor?" "It was me," the reply to my uncle comes out immediately, without a second thought. I am surprised by my own response, as I had forgotten completely about the time when I would go on those long journeys to the other side of the island to tutor my twelve-year-old cousin.
"He was very poor in his studies in primary school, but something clicked when he was in secondary school, and now he is in his second year of university. Anyway, thank you for tutoring him back then." It is a surreal moment, being thanked by an uncle I had not seen in perhaps seven years for something I did over ten years ago, something I had long forgotten.
This family gathering has turned out to be rather surprising.
Seven years is a long time. Kids become sudden teenagers, toddlers grow into children and three-year-olds appear from thin air. Where are the children I once played with? And who are these teenagers that I now have no idea how to speak with? I find it hard to come to terms with these changes in appearance, dressing and manner that have appeared overnight.
And yet, despite all that time, some things don't change. Aunty M is ever witty, Little Uncle is still his playful self and Little Aunt, as always, is awkward but kind. My many, many aunts, uncles and cousins are still very much the people I remember from seven years before.
The biggest surprise for me, as it turns out, is how I have changed.
For a good many years since my teens, I have disliked attending these family gatherings that were held annually during the Chinese New Year period. I remember sitting with my siblings in front of the TV, bored, awkward and waiting to go home. I never knew how to talk to these relatives that I only met once a year. As far as I felt, they were almost strangers.
So it comes as no surprise that I did not have any expectations when I made my decision to attend this spontaneous family gathering. I had only decided to show up as these relatives had not seen me in years and had never once met my four-year-old. The evening is a pleasant one, much to my surprise.
For the first time, I find myself in the midst of the adults' conversations, interested in what they had to say. They reminisce. I hear about the toy monkey that went tok-tok-tok as it played the drum—a toy that was given to the youngest child, much to the envy and disappointment of his other siblings. I watch with amusement as sixty-and-seventy-year-olds bicker like little children, straightening out childhood stories, recalling distant memories like it was just yesterday. As I smile at their chatter, I feel a twinge inside at the thought that my aunts and uncles are only growing older by the day.
Why then am I only developing this deeper appreciation for family now when it's almost too late? Just like the twelve-year-old cousin I tutored who had that belated awakening, I often feel like a late bloomer myself. Is it absence that makes the heart grow fonder? Or do we only recognise the value of something after losing it? Or is it just me?
I observe the children running around without a care and the teenagers sitting quietly with their mother, and I wonder if this just might be the way that life runs in circles. Perhaps at every point of our journey, we are all trying our best with the limitations that we have to keep on going in this thing called life. And perhaps the best thing I can do for myself now is to give past me some grace, let go of these regrets, and carry on—후회없이.