Khawng Yam flower @ The Diary of a Secret Love
The night was still, the sun having just dipped below the horizon. Inside a dim , hazy room of the house, my father's weak, shallow breathing filled the air, gently breaking the silence. That faint sound of his breath sent a shiver of dread down my spine.
Losing someone I loved wasn't new to me, but I could never grow accustomed to the pain. Fear was a constant companion. Now, as I was about to lose the person I loved most, my mind started to scare me again.
My father's hands were shaking as he reached under his pillow. He pulled out a small key and gave it to me, his hand trembling.
With a choked utterance, he said...
"There is a box in the study room, son. That little box..."
Before he could finish, his breathing became very hard.
"Father... don't talk. You'll exhaust yourself," I pleaded, clutching his hand, feeling completely lost. But soon after, with one final ragged gasp, my father was gone. Even though I had known his end was near, tears just streamed down my face. I held his lifeless body tight and collapsed onto the floor, crying.
Now, my sobs replaced my father's breath, echoing through the silent night. In the end, everything shifts and is impermanent. Now, my father, too, was gone.
I managed to shepherd my grief through my father's funeral and memorial services. After all that, the first thing I recalled was the small key Father had entrusted to me.
Today, with everything settled, I finally decided to go into my father's study room. I walked straight to his study. I kept thinking about what message Father had intended to leave me with that key.
Sunlight poured through the window. It felt as if those shafts of light were cradling onto my father's presence in the room. When I saw the tiny dust particles floating in the light, I was instantly reminded of the times when he was here.
My father loved to read and learn new things. When he had free time, he always devoted it to the books in his study. He used his private time in that room. When I was young, he would bring me into the study and instill in me a love for reading. Now that he's passed, the only way I can hold onto his memory is through his books.
I remember clearly that my father was a devoted husband to my mother and a wonderful father to me. Was instrumental in helping me become an engineer. I remembered the valuable education he provided and the nurturing care my mother gave. When I reflected on their relationship, it seems closer to that if best friends than a typical marriage. They never argued, yet I also never witnessed them being overly lovey-dovey.
My mother always said one peculiar phrase: "I am the second one." She always said it with a laugh.
At that time, I just assumed that Father prioritized his parents above her- that was my simple interpretation. But I didn't know that this simple thought would vanish when I used the key to unlock the lacquer box and started uncovering my father's past.
Thinking all these things, I looked at the books in the study. I opened the drawer of my father's desk and pulled out the small lacquer box. 'Why did Father ask me to open this?' I swallowed hard, feeling excited, and inserted the key to unlock the box. The first thing I saw inside the lacquer box was a "dried Khawng Yam flower."
With the dried flower, there was a diary. I decided to read it right away. Flipping quickly to a random page, I began reading...
"Myo, there was a festival in the neighborhood today, so I went, taking our son along. You told me to write whenever I missed you, and this is the very first entry. There were vendors shouting, Ferris wheels, soft toys for kids, and performances, but I didn't see the 'Little Thunderbirds' show. I saw the truly beautiful Myo there..."
This short note instantly grabbed my attention. The name that stayed in my mind was a woman's: "Myo." I quickly flipped through the pages. I scanned the entire diary, and saw that the name "Myo" was written on nearly every single page.
The name "Myo..." "Myo..." -the name of a woman-drew me in, compelling me to delve further into the contents of this book.
The show was called ... "Little Thunderbirds." Was my father involved with stage actresses? Who could this person be? Or, given the cryptic, lifelong insistence that she was "the second one", could this "Myo" have been my father's first love? Countless questions flooded my mind, but I was certain the answers lay within this diary. Thus, I immersed myself in the search for the truth.
