i never liked him

he always had a sneaky look, dodgy eyes. cigarette in his hand. he always came late for family functions, leaving earlier and earlier as the years went by.

he always boast about how he got a new job only to lose it a few months later. he never gave his mother money, his nephews and nieces treats. he hates babies, asks people for money to buy cigarettes and booze. he married a sick woman knowing he couldn't pay her bills and begged my mom and his mom for money.

he never told us his life story. he never gave me a hug or wished me happy birthday in my life. he always ate, always smoked, always drank and always coughed.

he always wasn't there.

i don't like him. he reeks of failure and disgust. he smells of irresponsiblity and unkemptness. he has thick greasy hair, tall and thin, dark deepset eyes with a toothless sinister grin. he looks dirty, dark and tanned all the time, liver spotted.

but today, after years of short meaningless conversations, i found out that he was lying in a hospital, dying and slowly slipping into oblivion.

meet my uncle. the youngest of the dragon babies. he's 49, an ex-drug addict, a heavy 3 pack a day smoker, alcoholic and now, a man who is dying and calling for his mommy every min of the day.

it saddens me to see him lying on the bed, gasping for breath. the docs gave him a week or two if he's lucky, to live.

i watch the same eyes that gave him money to 'support' his habit (of cos unwillingly), the same eyes that now filled with tears of heartache and pain. her baby boy is dying. and its nothing she can do about it.

my grandma's the strongest woman alive. she dares not even go to the toilet. her wrinkled hand cups his hand ever so tightly, yet so gentle and meek. i watch her eyes fill with fresh stinging tears as she urges him to sleep, give him water to sip and watch her wipe those tears away when he cries in pain.

i know she knows he's going. but yet she has that strong belief and hope he will walk out of the hospital as fit as a bull.

my mom, the stern elder sister, never let my grandma cry in front of him.

"don't let him see you cry", she whispered to me and mama. "we don't want him to feel worse, do we?"
i look at my mom swallow her tears into the pit of her stomach, allow with desperation and anger.

i watch my godpa sigh and wonder if he hadn't stopped smoking a while back, would he be in that bed instead.
godma never cries. she never puts a stop that that jovial facade she puts on every day.
dad sits silently in the hallway. i know he's thinking about ah ma.
the brother comes late. solemn and quietly he stalks the corridoor.

then the images of my mom throwing the receipts of beer and cigarettes at the floor, the wrinkled face of my agonised grandma, the million and one different times he let the family down flashing through my mind.

sometimes i think he deserves it. but now, i think he's just doing his penence before he goes.

uncle tommy, its time u understood what we went through. all the times your family cried for you.
but you know we all forgive you.
and we know you are sorry.
from the pain written all over your face. and from the tears you cry every time we touch your hands.

i'm praying for you.
go home to Him.

go home.