My Father.

When a person is born, we rejoice, and when they're married, we jubilate,

but when they die, we try to pretend that nothing happened.

--Margaret Mead

Manoeuvring through the streets of Beijing had always been for local citizens and its tourists an arduous task to manage. Especially during the summer months. The stench of sweat and dust proved itself to be a deadly combination. Vivid images flood my senses as I recount the days of my childhood, recount the last few moments before my multicoloured rainbow world of perfection was bombarded by the black and white scenes that I perceive even now.

She took my hand, her face tense and determined, though the slight wrinkles on the side of her eyes weakened her toughness. The summer breeze moved with ease through her ebony colored hair, they held well against it. She was in her mid thirties, I was only four, but the familiarity of her scent identified her as my mother. She held firmly onto my wrist as people pushed and crowded past with haste, until finally we arrived at the giant sized building filled with the stomach churning smell of medicine. We walked inside and made our ways out again through the back. The footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty intensive care units. Machines and gadgets beeped and hummed the stench of death floated vaguely through to every corner of the vicinity. The moaning and broken cries of patients bounced off every inch of the hallway and into my mind, painting unspeakable pictures of sad conclusions I created for myself. The long walkway dragged on, turning this way and that, finally arriving at a halt. My mother breathed heavily and pushed opened the door. Room 108 I reminded myself. The room was well lit, flowers and cards of countless colours and shapes filled nearly all the table space provided.

There lay a man weak beyond life. He smiled weakly and held his arms out to greet me. I froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, but the encouragement from mother persuaded me to hug the stranger. It was only then did the feeling of affiliation return to me...

He was my father.

A four year old child should never have seen the image I had, the emotions of loss and anguish eat away at you until finally all that is to live for is death.

A few weeks later, a startling phone call awoke my mother and I. The clock had shown itself to be 3:40 am my mother’s voice was enclosed by a layer of tears as she spoke hurriedly into the phone.

I could hear the tremble of her lips, even taste the saltiness of tears that had fallen upon her drained and colourless face. I was dressed quickly and taken to the hospital. Now empty and deserted, the taxi made quickly down the streets of Beijing, the air was crisp and the aroma of jasmine filled the surroundings.

There it was again, the gigantic white building stood, cold and lifeless, filled with ghastly images of pain and cries. Mother told me to wait outside as she ran hurriedly down past the back lawn and into the intensive care ward. My mind flew with images unwelcoming. As I was told to do, I’d waited. It wasn’t long until my curiosity had triumphed over my patience and I got up and headed for room 108. I pushed the door, nothing barged. Panic ran through