I don't know who exactly read this. You may be someone I know, or a stranger. But regardless of who you are, I guess I'm writing this blog for myself to read. So bear with me today, coz it's going to be long.

There are some things that I want to remember but I forget eventually and there are other stuff that I wish to banish from my mind forever but they're stuck there forever. I do not want to remember death, yet in some way, I want to remember the people who have died.

My paternal grandmother died before I was born. When I was young, I used to wonder what she looked like and how she would have treated me if she was still there. They hung a picture of her on the wall of my grandfather's house back in Malaysia. I never knew her so it didn't bothered me when I started to forget her.

I learnt more about death when I was 9 years old. My paternal grandfather passed away suddenly. The news came timely to me since I was able to get a week off school to attend the funeral in Malaysia. I couldn't remember much about that funeral except for the sock-sewing and the no-holding-joss-sticks stuff. But it is coming back to me now. When they were about to bury my grandfather, my aunt was holding me and blocking my view with her body. She kept crying and told me not to look. I regret I did not take a second look, because I've forgotten how my grandfather looks like. And it scares me.

4 years later, my maternal grandfather passed away. He was a healthy man but some bogus doctor gave him the wrong prescription. I cried in the hospital, not so because I'm devastated but more of guilt because I wasn't there when he went home. And I remember that I did not even bother to take time off to visit him when he was staying at the hospital. I cried at his funeral because I felt guilty and because my mom was crying buckets. My mom kept hugging me as she reminded me that she is a child without a father now. And I didn't want that to happen to me.
I knew my grandfather yet I do not know him. He was stern but kind, always waving the newspapers before me and speaking in rapid Foochew which I could never learn. I think I took him for granted when he was still around, thinking that he would never leave me. But I miss him now.

When I got out of my guilt, I started to be afraid. I was afraid that I might forget how he looked like, just like how I've forgotten how my paternal grandfather looked like. I collected whatever photos I had of him and I framed up every piece. I wasn't there when he stepped over so the very least I can do is to remember him.

Now, my grandmother's lying in a nursing home. The doctors are not giving her any medication for her diabetic condition and her kidney failure problem. They're just feeding her milk daily and letting her go slowly. She's the last surviving one of all my grandparents. But I'm grateful this time. I'm grateful to God that I got to know her, that I was there for her when she needed me. I'm thankful that I got to visit her, got to sing for her, pray for her and talk to her. Maybe it's selfish on my side, but this time, I won't have any regrets should God take her home. This time, I think I'm going to remember her for who she is instead of her looks.

For safety precautions, I've framed up every photo I have of her. I guess everyone has a family photo at home to remind themselves of the people who are gone.
It explains why there were only photos at Ms. Low's funeral.

Ms. Esther Low was my Sec 2 Literature teacher. I loved her because she was the friendliest teacher and she supported this tiny prayer support group we had back in DHS. One year after joining DHS, she committed suicide by jumping down from a building in Tampines. I was shattered. Her wake at Singapore Casket was packed filled with people but we never got to see her one last time because they did not open that small peaking window in her coffin. All we got were photos.

Regardless of the number of photos displayed at her funeral, I began to forget how she looked like. I frantically searched every yearbook, hoping to find her picture but I could find none.

I'm not scared of death. But as I start to forget the looks of people who have once impacted my life, I'm afraid that you will forget me one day. Not so in a sense that you forget what I've done or said, but you forget me. I'm afraid that I will mean nothing to you one day because people say that time changes all.

But does time really change everything? Does time heal all wounds? What if you really forget that I existed once? Do you know that it will break my heart.