by Francis Tan
Your mother grew up in a family of traditions. She learnt things the hard way, the way only a stern old man knew and executed. Regulations ruled with no room for tenderness and mistakes.
But she always knew her shell couldn't contain the free spirit within. Not when the influence of the modern city surrounding her family had an upper hand over her father. Before long, she was out away from home.
She got into sales and learnt the trades from an oldhand. She did pretty well before knowing that she had been conned. There began a series of disillusioned career paths, one after another.
She had no luck with love too. A young dude beat her up; a married man took her money; and a failed businessman killed himself.
By chance, we met at the pub. I was singing with my guitar. She came up to me, drunk in her sorrows. That night, she poured out her life.
She came back to the pub the following night, and the night after......
We got married in my hometown. I told her I couldn't give her much. She said it's ok 'cos I told her I'd be the first person she could always run to.
We talked, we listened; we laughed, we cried; we worked, we played. We were each other's elemental need.
And then we had you.
My fingers run on your face. You look like your mother. I wish you could meet her, little baby.
(Francis is a trader who loves music and reading.)