Read Online Petals from the Sky by Mingmei Yip - Free Book Online Page B

never really captured Father, for he was as slippery as a snake—just when you thought you might get a hold of him, he had already vanished into the depth of the bush. Sometimes this made me think that maybe in life you should never try to capture what you really want. For at the moment when you’re holding the conquest in your hands, your victory only signifies the beginning of the end. Maybe only the ignorant will hold on. The wise will either let go or simply live with imperfection as it is. Or, maybe, in her own way, Mother truly felt happy with Father. For this romantic love was the only dream she had in life; without it, she’d be like a flower without the sun, a beauty without a mirror. Softly, Mother began to recite the poem written on the picture:
“Eight years blurred between life and death;
Even as I try not to think, I can’t forget.
A solitary grave a thousand miles away has no way to express its melancholy.
I fear, when we meet, my face will be dusty and my hair white.”
    “That’s how he wrote to express his grief for our eight years’ separation,” Mother said. Then she looked lost in thought. “Your father was such a genius; he had such deep feelings. If people could appreciate poetry today…he’d be famous, very famous….”
    It saddened me to see how the years had caused Mother’s lips to droop helplessly at the corners and her eyes to lose their luster. Too, it saddened me to know the truth that, again, this poem was not written by Father but by Su Dongpo, the great Song dynasty poet. Worse, Father had changed the original “ten years” of Su’s poem to suit his eight years’ separation from Mother. It broke my heart that Mother could not see the truth, even when it was bared right in front of her eyes. To her, believing is seeing, rather than the reverse. Or did she deliberately choose to be blind?
    Suddenly, a strong wind blew from the window and the rice papers scattered on the floor in a flurry. Mother stooped to pick them up, embarrassing me with her plump torso and her awkward pose.
    “Quick, Meng Ning, close the windows! And be careful not to trample on your father’s poems!”
    I went up to the windows and saw, to my surprise, that what brightly shone outside the window was not the moon, but a streetlamp.

    The phone’s trilling jolted me awake from my reverie; I snatched it up. “Hello.”
    “Can I speak to Meng Ning, please.”
    “Michael?” My heart raced.
    “Yes. Meng Ning.” A pause, then, “Are you all right? I called last night, but nobody answered the phone. I was worried about you.”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry, Michael. I didn’t hear anything. Mother must have turned off the phone. Sometimes she doesn’t want to be bothered. I’m fine.”
    “Your knee and ankle…you want me to come over and change the bandages for you?”
    “No thanks. I think I can manage,” I said, feeling a tug at my heart and suppressing it.
    He asked whether I would like to go to the hospital with him to visit Yi Kong and other patients from the fire.
    I was glad he’d asked, and suddenly ashamed. How could I have forgotten to think of my mentor, who not only had taught me Buddhism and Zen painting, but also had given me free meals and even lent me money for my father’s funeral?

    Michael was waiting for me by the entrance of Kwong Wah Hospital when I arrived at five-thirty in the afternoon. We bought some fruit and juice at a street stall outside, then walked into the lobby.
    Yi Kong slept, with two nuns sitting at her bedside—the eye-twitching nun and a young novice. Once I’d put the gift on the chest beside the bed, they signaled us to go outside.
    When we were in the corridor, they both exclaimed, “ A Mi Tuo Fo! Praise to the Merciful Buddha! Thank you so much for what you two have done.” Although I remembered them from the retreat, I’d never asked their names. The eye-twitching nun was Lonely Journey and the young nun No Dust. Lonely Journey told us Yi Kong was only