161: Appa

Our eyes are glued to the television set.

And the AC hums.

He is on his side, his hand propping up his bald head, his thumb caressing gently the ridges of his ear, him, lying on the tatami mat. Me, I'm sitting. The loose straws tickle my bare calves. I hug in my out-stretched legs, towards my body, as my hands caress the itch away; and I rest my chin on the kneecap, and glance, if for a fleeting moment, at the very first man I have ever loved... and hated, Abeoji, Father.

"You go fuck yourself," he yells. On the TV screen, Sam, Hayden Christensen's character, pleads, no, demands, that he'd not be sent away to his father's place for the summer. "I hate you," he growls.

But inside my Japanese bungalow, the cool air wafts; the AC hums.

The trace aroma of mapo tofu, a meal share between father and son, a meal prepared by the son... (was it a gesture of devotion from the son to his father?) the aroma, a trace of what once was, it seems to linger. Ephemerally. Transiently.

Our eyes are glued to the television set.

As father and son watch a movie about a father and a son, the both of us watching the both of them, fighting to reconnect, fighting to make right, us, we.., I... I think...

...About the man who was never there for me, about the man who made me see my mom's tears flow continents away, about the man who chose this country and his other family over ours. I think about my heart breaking.

Sam again rages at his father, George, played by Kevin Klein, "You are unbelievably stupid!"

I steal a glance. 'Does Abeoji realize the same rage is inside me?' I wonder. 'I hate Japan, I hate my sister, I hate him!'

But the beautifully calligraphed washi paper hanging down from a furin, a wind chime, flutters; the cool air wafts; the AC hums.

George is playing with his baby boy out in the ocean, bouncing up and down with the waves; I am hiding in the attic. The doorbell has rung, and this little boy is ready to surprise. The waves hit them both. Sam embraces George hard, too overjoyed to have his father near; I hear him ask for me. I throw open the trap door and jump. Into his embrace. Too overjoyed to have my Abeoji near.

That moment, George explains, was the happiest he had ever been. That moment, I recall, was my fondest memory of him.

And it's the last time I remember calling him, Appa, Dad. Just plain old Dad.

The furin chimes; the washi flutters; the cool air wafts; the AC hums.

And our eyes are glued to the television set.