My Christmas.

Written by: Chue Eung (25-O1)

Designed by: Elliot (25-U1)

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“Papa, what is Christmas?”

“哦，你说圣诞节ah? 不是华人庆祝 的节日，但我们也会给你们礼物的，dont worry. “

(Oh, do you mean Christmas? It's not a chinese holiday but we’ll celebrate it anyways.)

And then he’ll tousle my barely grown hair with those eyes that screamed of fondness, as one usually does when they see their inquisitive little child. Then I’ll nod and grin widely at the thought of possibly getting that 梦寐以求的 (long awaited for) LEGO Millenium Falcon.

And when that day finally rolls around, we’d gather underneath a squeaky ceiling fan with that light bulb that emits its signature dim yellowish-orange glow and sit at that weathered wooden dining table with years of scratchy drawings (if those cracks in the wood were drawn by Picasso) and celebrate our Christmas. 

Our Christmas feast had a fish steamed in garlic, green onions, and oyster sauce as its center piece, followed by a healthy heap of rice in our ‘Thomas the train engine’ bowls that my brother and I could never part with. And instead of that usual Chinese herbal apple soup, we get a delicious mushroom campbell soup with 枸杞 (wolfberry) that still somehow makes its way into every soup we drink. And then the star of the show, the dish that without fail makes my brother and I water at the mouth was that hastily made chicken dipped in flavory flaky breadcrumbs and fried to that homely perfection that mama makes on ‘special occasions’. And this grand feast would be  paired with  a chocolate log cake mama bought from a seasonal sale at four leaves on her way home. 

Then my brother and I would scram and giggle when papa launches himself at us like some zoo ranger catching their escaped convict monkeys and mama 捧腹大笑 (laughing boisterously), recording the whole thing on her cracked iphone. 

And when the laughter fades, replaced by the inevitable food coma that hits us all like a truck, papa and mama would hand us fruit baskets filled to the brim with random gifts; new socks for school, our favorite pens and pencils that we had begged for a refill; occasionally a t-shirt mama found cheap and ‘cool-looking’ at the bazaar the other day. And after savaging our ‘care packages’, we would find a hidden red packet filled with more money than we had ever held. 

And finally, while our jaws dropped and heads flung around towards our parents in amazement they’ll smile a little and say, “这是你这整年的零用钱，记得要save ah” (This is your pocket money for the rest of the year, remember to save it). And if we just dig a little deeper into the red packet while tugging out the cash bills like crazed and ravenous dogs we would stumble upon a handwritten card imprinted with handwritten chinese characters of 福，乖，用功，祝爸爸妈妈 (‘fortune’, ‘obedient’, ‘hard-working’, ‘from papa and mama’) . And even though a tiny part of me would be a bit disappointed at not getting that Millenium Falcon, seeing my weary parents' faces even at the tender age of 8 did a lil something to my heart which kept my mouth shut. 

And finally I’ll keep that red packet with that sweet sweet cash and even sweeter note in my chocolate tin devoid of chocolate,  all the while bragging to my friends about how rich I am now. 

That was my Christmas. 

And then a few years  flew by. 

Then that Christmas became a distant dream. Replaced not by that deep hoarse laughter father made when my brother and I punched him in self-defense against his atrocious attacks but by the laughter of my peers, of my friends. Instead of that dim light that flickered occasionally like a horror movie setting  we would have some brightly lit and aesthetically pleasing function room my aunts and uncles rented out for that massive Christmas gathering that required us all to bring foods that start with the letters of our name. And instead of that concoction of death my brother and I made of fanta, sprite, come, ice cream and a little shot of champagne my father sneakily snuck in, we would have fruit punch that the catering service brought in. 

And then papa and mama were not there. Not by our side. Neither dead nor physically distant but away, away in a room filled with beeps and hushed whispers and tinkling of instruments. They’ll video call us, nag us about our holiday homework and bicker with each other over how they should 管教他们的孩子 (take care of us). And even though my brother and I would still smile and laugh at their silliness, a part of me knew that white background behind them was not the snowy mountain they claimed they had 放假 (take leave) to go to. But still, they insisted they were fine, 只是咳嗽罢了(it's just a bit of coughing) before telling us to check underneath our beds for those red packets. Filled, filled with the dollar bills and that letter they had handwritten and even though this time I was not the spellbound child I was all those years ago I would still grin like a child receiving their Christmas present. And when I finally see my papa and mama smile back at my reaction then do I let my heart break.  

That was my Christmas. 

And then a few months went by. 

That was their last Christmas. 

And then my brother and I were here. Papa and mama were there. There in that blazing flame that they told us would bring them up up and away to meet our 祖先 (ancestors), where’d they surely be at peace. And instead of that gift basket we always looked forward to we would get those bouquets of flowers with those envelopes that contained not sweet sweet cash and even sweeter letters but a computerised “Dear xxx, our condolences”. When finally those days of designated mourning below our void decks were over and our friends and loved ones returned home, I would return home. 

To that home with its dimly lit living room with its smell of mama’s recently bought febreeze still fresh in the air, while I gingerly traced the scratches along our weathered wooden dining table before ending up in my childhood bedroom. Then I’ll slowly remove that chocolate tin from my cupboard and take out those numerous red packets. And finally I’ll  read aloud those handwritten characters of 福，乖，用功，祝福爸爸妈妈 (‘fortune’, ‘obedient’, ‘hard-working’, ‘from papa and mama’) and feel those droplets of scalding hot water roll down my face. And when at last I flip the letter over and see those 4 words I’ll sniff a little and crack a little smile and say it aloud gratefully. 

圣诞节快乐！

Merry Christmas.