lantern, lullaby, and loving memory

17 Oct, 2025

for kong, whom i cherish more than words can express:

mabalacat, the summer of 2018 — i'd decided during the school year where and what i was doing for college, but i hadn't quite told you. i probably should have. the first time i'd ever learned how to work with shapes on a program was in your living room.

i don't remember what we were talking about. i think i hinted at it. not unkindly, you said something to me about how if i did something else, i could earn more money. still, i cracked at the jab. for months, i'd held my heart so quiet and so close. steadfast, knowing it would be lonely; that at first, nobody would be behind me. i was ready. i could have heard worse from anyone in the world, so long as it wasn’t you.

and why not you? my old king carpenter, my plywood priest. lover of check-ins and dear friend to geese. last of the nightwatchers, vigilant in the search for any stragglers yet to tuck themselves into a proper sleep.

how could i not believe in something, if it came from you?

(“lolo’s sorry. now look at me. lolo’s sorry. don’t cry. of course i didn’t mean it. look at me, now. of course you can be whatever you want to be.”)

all you wanted was for us to be better off, if we could manage it. not for yourself, no, never for yourself. you could be hooked up to five different IVs and i'd still know what your first request would be: though you could no longer eat, food to hand your nurses — nothing too cheap, please. like you were afraid a drought would make us waver, that if you were hurting we would forget joy was made to offer.

don’t be mistaken: we learned to be generous, even when things are hard (especially when they're hard!), because you only ever lived like a king in the act of giving.

it’s funny, now that i think about it, how everyone in our family is so awkward about our manner of caring considering we’ve all shared a home with you. it’s a typical chinese stereotype we happen to fall into: we work to make each other’s lives easier in secret because duty is duty — isn’t something to flaunt, or expect praise for. see: how you carried cement on your back and climbed up rickety ladders for much longer than anyone ever expected you to; and not once did you ask for a single word of gratitude.

still, you never shied away from telling me you loved me. we’d hug every time we crossed paths, touching just to touch, even if it was just the hallway from kitchen to bathroom. temple to shoulder, palm to waist — a whole language of affection, i learned this way.

if mâ taught me how to be tough, then you were my touchstone for tenderness. growing up, i never lacked for a hand to hold because you so readily held yours out. the way you are, because you still are, i knew you must have missed her the most out of any of us. you've always been such a sap. you rushed back to her side so quickly, i can only hope you weren't too lonely.

sudden departures are scary. where we live, even more so. i'll be honest. i'm trying very hard not to let fear grip me. but you know want to know something? when i put my ear against your heart for the last time, it was quiet; and you were still warm. only dreaming.

not a thing could have scared me in that moment, when for the first time in a long time — you looked like you were finally sleeping.¹

i'll think i'll be here for a bit longer, come back into the room where you're lying, though i know this isn't goodbye. you haven't left me, or anyone else behind. it's only good night, so let me say it to you for once: good night.