Where is Your Rider?

Being a strong and powerful horse of a breed well known to Man, she always hated to be rode around. Her muscles, her power, her torque, was never meant for a human being, so insignificant and so useless - due to the idea that they can't run - thus the thought of getting a human rider over her back, to kick her by the side often got to her nerves.

She wanted to be free. She wanted to run in the wild like a beast. She wanted animals and creatures to see her in awe, and not see the rider over her back. She wanted to be seen and not be sat on, she wanted to be what she was.

One day, her opportunity came. As the rider, again, as usual, kicked her by the side as she was trying to make a jump over a little boulder, this time she flicked her hind legs hard and wide, lifted her whole back up to the sky and shook violently. The rider, taken aback by her sudden response, lost control and balance, and in a split second was off on the ground. She galloped away with the wind, swiftly without looking back, thrilled by her new found freedom.

Crossing the many miles of grass and fields, the stepping across rivers and streams, she was filled with pride and a sense of dignity. Now, she's the wild horse that Man cannot tame. The proud stallion that people will admire and dream of catching to no avail. She was strong and powerful, the beast that the forest has never seen!

But soon enough, she realized that this new found freedom of hers wasn't really freedom. She wandered around the open fields and meadows. After a while, she got bored with the grass and scenes. It wasn't like she never saw those kind of things before. She saw plenty of it while she was still carrying her rider wherever she went.

Now, she lost her sense of meaning and direction. The evening sun came and set behind the dark mouintains, and she knew not where to rest her head. Still strolling, she slowly missed her rider. The rider will usually give her a nice warm rub every evening, and tie her to something so that she can rest comfortably. No more were there any warm rubs, she didn't even know where to go and rest for the night.

She was what she was, because of what the rider gave her. Losing the rider, and she lost what she is.

The tears of a horse are tears that Man never sees, yet she was crying and sobbing. A horse that was once a symbol of power and might, suddenly reduced to emptiness and direction-less. She wished that she didn't kick her rider off. She wished she wasn't so arrogant and so strong-willed. She was ready to give up anything now, even her own life, to get the rider back on her self.

Still caught in her tears, her eyes caught the dim light at the corner of her horizon. She tilted her head, wondering the source of the light. Soon, a familiar voice called from a distance, getting louder and louder.

She didn't have to wait for the rider to find her. She knew that if she lost this opportunity, she will never get it back again. She got up to her legs, and again, carried by the wind, back to the feet of the rider. The rider ran to the horse, and gave his beloved carrier a warm hug and a nice rub on the back.

"Where have you been?" he asked with so much warmth and love. She so wanted to tell him how much she missed him, how sorry she was for leaving and kicking him off, and her promise of never going away again, but all that could come out from her were the mere grunts of a typical beast.

"You'll never go again would you?" Never.

A rider, brings meaning to the flying of a horse, and the rider is the heartbeat of the horse. The rider makes the horse what it is, and the rider makes the horse a magnificent creature that both Man and creatures will read, see and hear. Where is your rider, and what have you done with him?

"Give Me Back What is Mine" 2

Suddenly images of waiting at a bus stop - God knows why - led me to the thought of what happened shortly after I surrendered the handkerchief back to my dad.


My dad, being the wise and kind one, as he gave me the handkerchief, was clearly aware that I will never be able to fully utilize it. Not able to understand the value of that silk handkerchief, he decided to keep it and give it back to me later when I'm slightly older and 'more mature' to handle it wisely.


A small kid I was, and a small mind I had. The whole idea of having to 'wait for the handkerchief' wasn't something I actually liked. My mother spent many many weeks of having to painfully explain to me why I couldn't have the handkerchief yet, and why I had to wait for it, so that I won't tear the handkerchief, so that I won't simply lose it, so I won't destroy it or use it wrongly and stuff...


.. but the hard part came, when I suddenly saw the old handkerchief I used to have.

And this time, it was in the hands of a kid of my age, that I actually - and seriously - disliked.

My jaw dropped as I saw him pulling out that handkerchief from his pocket. What on earth is that handkerchief doing with him?!? And as he drew it out, he shaked it so hard and flapped it open without giving it much thought of 'what would happen to the poor handkerchief'. Anger started to rise in me, and I could feel the heat all over my face.

After some vigorous shaking and flapping of the handkerchief, he wiped his nose. Blowing hard into the handkerchief, I could see strains of the utterly disgusting mucus coming out from his nose, and he wiped harder than ever.


That was the last straw. Breathing fury and inhaling fumes, I charged right up to him. I was almost running with my fist clenched tightly. For a small kid back then, I sure was mad and angry. My eyes were burning at the sight of him, and I saw him burning and bleeding in my anger as I approached him. He's going to pay for it, he will.


At the nick of time, luckily, my mother stopped me. Holding me back with one hand on my shoulder and the other hand on my head with her back facing the boy, she pushed me all the way back to a little corner and carried me up from there. I wasn't prepared to give up at all. I was so close to socking him for treating my beloved handkerchief in such unruly and inhumane manner, with no sense of responsibility or awareness towards the value of that handkerchief he was holding. Fighting my mom, I was kicking and pushing her hands away to almost no avail. Slowly, as I realized that I could never outdo my mother, the struggle faded slowly.


No more did I fight my mother. That time, the anger and fury made me weary and tired. I was then devastated, a soldier lost in nowhere, a pilgrim without a compass. Sadness overwhelming me, I cried and sobbed softly. In the middle of a grand function, I would be really shy if other people saw me crying, and I was careful not to let anyone see those tears of mine. Sobbing, I finally fell face first into the strong shoulders of my mother, and wrapped my little hands over her neck.


Patting me on the back gently, she carried me out into the garden for a walk. I was still crying, but only the tears were left on my face. My mom's shirt was almost drenched in my tears. She hummed the song "Give Thanks" softly into my ears, and that really did calm me down.


But the sadness, the frustration, the struggle..


My handkerchief, once everything I only had then, now in the hands of an idiot that didn't appreciate it..


Why?


"Why is it with him?" choking on those tears, I finally asked.


"It's dad's to give darling," my mom sad softly. For a little boy, I thought I could sense the sadness in her tone and voice. "But I'm sure dad knows what he's doing ok? He loves you darling, I promise.."


"You know that too don't you?" she continued.


I nodded my head slowly. Back then, I couldn't understand why would he ever allow such an obnoxious kid to hold the once favourite handkerchief of mine, and until now I still don't. All that I could remember now, is that after I nodded my head while rested comfortably on my mother's shoulders, I still cried, in my heart, for a long time. I cried, and cried, and was left to cry. My dad, I thought, would never have seen me cry back then.


But somehow, later as I grew up, even if I never actually knew why he gave him the handkerchief, I had this strong inkling, that he knew exactly when I cried, and why I did. After all, he's the dad.

Punctuations of Life (Have You?)

Have you ever heard, the voices of the night?
In the loneliness and darkness, I've heard the call of solitude.

Have you ever seen, the pot of gold on the edge of the rainbow?
Legend says, those that places their hands in it, will come out blessed and great.

Have you ever smelt, the scent of the morning winds?
It carries the fragrance of your loved ones, it reminds you of people that care for you.

Have you ever tasted, the honey in the bittergourd?
Its sweetness is magnified, its taste no one can forget.

Have you ever ran a thousand miles to catch a leopard?
The leopard mocks the fools that chases it, and the dust is all it leaves behind.

Have you ever swam the seven seas to hunt for a mermaid?
It's a dream that keeps you swimming, and the storms that makes the catch worth millions.

Have you ever felt the strength of a lame man?
He is strongest when he tries to stand up, greatest when he hangs on.

Have you ever touched the palms of a labourer?
Amid the cleavages of his hard hands, are the valleys of his family and his love.

Have you ever held a fish in your hand?
Soft to your senses, yet a struggle to its survival.

Have you look up into the skies and marvelled the stars that paint the night?
To stand in awe, the mysteries of the universe, yet the simplicity of its brightness.

Have you heard the works of a disabled musician?
In his weaknesses, he produces the greatest pieces; in his struggles, he creates the most amazing music.

Have you seen the light at the end of a tunnel?
More than just unmistakable or bright, it is the one thing that keeps you going.



No man is ever left alone, and the storm has a lesson of blessing at its end.
Nobody is ever left unloved, and the obstacles in life has a beautiful story for people to hear.

The pace of the world was never meant to be chased, but the dreams of the heart is left to be pursued.
The greatest strength is always seen in utter weaknesses, and amid the tough, the soft is never forgotten.

Somethings are never meant to be, the rest will always be.
Somethings are best in its worst, but in its worst, the light always prevails.




Walk towards that light, for that light will neither dim, nor fade. I know, coz I've once walked to and through that light.

The Final Lady of Peace - A Night to Remember

I must confess that this post, is by far and large, the hardest post I have ever written. Coz as I type, unlike other posts where ideas just flow on and on, here I am, stuck, figuring word for word, piecing pictures and images and memories together, to come up with a last post about her. Significantly marking a little end to a close partnership I have enjoyed with her while working together for the Lord.

It's more than a year since I first met her. From that first hand shake as related in the first post about her, we have came a long way. Partners in Christ, workers of His kingdom, servants of the Lord.

People look at us, close, laughing, talking together so much, little do they know what are the conversations that take place between us. It is easily perceived that we're nothing more or less of a couple in love, youths in a relationship that decide to spend time together. It's easy for the side that's doing the assumption and stuff.

It's not.

One weekend, I casually invited her out for dinner at Subang. Had a long talk, a short talk, and a nice - but costly - dinner. After that was a small talk about CA. What has happened throughout the year, what we have went through, how we dealt with problems and crisises, how far has it went..

And I realized, that was it. There it is, a job completed, a completed work, a term that we all ran and finished together, minus some last preparations before a complete handover can take place.

I sighed. Caught in a dilemma of relief and sadness. Relieved because we managed to pull through, because the dedicated team of people that were always behind and beside us slogged harder than anyone else, because of the things we went through together, the whole team is now closer together. Amanda once promised us, "Believe it or not, CA will be your family, CA will be your closest friends, CA is your home." Reflecting on those words of wisdom, I couldn't have said it any better.

And sad, because a great partnership has officially ended.Over my many years of service to the school or to my bosses that I've worked for, I always work with a partner. I always perform better when with a great partner. Worked with great emcees for major events, I've worked with awesome debaters in tournaments like Sathya, Deenish and most recently Rachel, had great teams of people working on projects like with Wei Li..

...but really, nothing beats working with her. Behind the scenes of CA, where business is business and God's work is real serious, there are little things that God puts along the way to help us grow and learn, and have some joy out of it. This partner is one of it.

And reflecting on things, I have came a long way with her. Many might not know that the reason why I enjoy working with her is not because it's easy to get along with her. I won't disagree if anyone tells me that she's the nicest person to be with - because it's true at times - but at the same time, it's not.

Maybe one of the reasons why I enjoyed my 1 year period of working with her, was because of the many partners I've worked with, I never had such an opportunity to know them as much as I knew her. And other bonuses too were similar family background, a history of once being rejected and isolated, never enjoyed material luxury, but more importantly, same passion and same love for God.

But maybe, the greatest reason was because she taught me how to be a better person for myself, for other people, for God.

She taught me how to not judge people. Like anyone, we have our own past. A past of being condemned, judged and deemed unworthy. A history of not being accepted, being secluded and being isolated. Knowing how it feels like to be in that position is one thing, but being in a position to make a change is another thing. And altogether, we were together placed in a position to make that change, she taught me how to not make the same mistakes others did.

She taught me that no one is perfect. No matter how nice you can be, there will always be a time where you make mistakes or piss someone off. At least, she made me realize the number of times I pissed her off. She never reserved her comments on me, and one thing for sure, she never lied. She never hide her anger and her fury when I made her feel so. She reminded me that it's ok to be angry and to quarrel. We quarreled a lot, and after the quarrel I'd be the remorseful one that feels like a total asshole for making her angry in the first place.

More importantly, she showed me that though you may have screwed things up so badly where people are concern, there can always be a second chance. She was always forgiving, and she taught me how to say sorry by first saying it.

The day she said she was sorry, was the day that she made me cry. Amazingly, I am a person that will almost cry for nothing, and yet she made me cry. It wasn't anything big or major or important, instead it was over a small comment that she made about a photo I took. Hurt, especially when an undesirable comment came from someone that meant so much to you. Tears that fell, were like a river washing through a dry bank. For the first time in my life, I thank God for putting those tears in me.

Earlier the year, I almost allowed myself to believe that after all that I've went through, I have no more tears left to shed. Yet God could use a partner to prove otherwise. Probably God was laughing and mocking me when He made me cry, but I thank God that He again made me realize that there will always be no end to tears, because as long as there are tears, there is hope of a someone that will wipe it away.

For as much as I have seen her tears, so has she seen mine. Not the physical tears, but she the tears in the heart that no one sees unless you open it up for them. And as usual, she being the sensible one may not wipe it away, but she'll help me get over and along with other things ahead.

"Let it go."

That night, as I talk to her, somehow I was just overwhelmed with sadness and a tinge of fear. Sad because I know I probably won't lose a great and loving friend, but because I've lost opportunities to work with her. A lil fearful, worried about whether I'll ever be able to meet someone as wonderful as her.

"Thank you," I finally blurted out, "For that fantastic partnership that you've given me."

"Uh, not me boy," she replied. "It came from God." I smiled. That was just her. Never taking the credit for herself, always giving it back to where it truly deserved.

I stretched out my hand, almost the same way I stretched it out one and a half years ago. That time, it was a show of new friendship, now the end of an almost magical year of working and laughing and crying.

She replied similarly, the same handshake. Holding her hand, I could feel the cleavages along her palm. Hard, from the labour of her past and history, and yet warm, from the sincerity and the trueness of a friend that is often lacking in a world of competition and business.

Somehow, something in me told me to not let go. Something in me prompted me to just hang on and hold on. I wanted to. Dearly. But I know that the time will eventually come where you must let go of what is in front of you for something ahead of you that you may not see.
Still, I'll never like the idea of memories. Memories are mere symbols of the past. I hate to be reminded of the past. I wished I never had memories, but rather be in the presence of beautiful things. Where memories are only things that you can recall and wish it was happening, I want to be in the midst of real beautiful things that happen.

Never liking it though, won't change the fact that memories now are all that is left with me now. This is the last and final post, no more will anyone read about her. A promise that must be kept, a word I gave her that will be fulfilled. A magical partnership, a splendid year, a great friend I will remember. Beautiful not in what she looks like, not in what she has, but simply in what she is. A lady of peace that I won't ever forget. Not especially that night, and certainly not that last handshake.

A Candle Called Steel

I once saw a wise and old candle maker, sitting alone in a little cozy room, a magnifying glass on one side of his nose, under a little lamp, carving something. By right, since he’s a candle maker, he should be making candles. That’s an easy task, considering the fact that candles are just made of wax – just melt it and mold it – so why the magnifying glass, the lamp and the scrutiny?

“It’s a special little candle, my son,” he said slowly without even looking up. Not willing to take his eyes off the task his hands are on, he replied under that same breath, “It’s a special candle.”

Special? What’s so special about a candle? Don’t all candles serve the same purpose of being lit and lighting up the surroundings?

He saw people changing candles every time. It was a tiring process of having to climb up the ladder and remove the wax from the candle holder, fix a new one on top and light it. It was more than just tedious, it was sometimes dangerous. Many little children have tried changing the candles and got burnt. Houses burnt down because they weren’t careful while fixing the new candles. Lives lost in the process of that. Something needs to be done, he said to himself. And how it can be done, was by removing the need of having to change those candles instead. In the process, he came up with an idea, of making a candle that will never burn out. If it can’t be burnt out, it wouldn’t need to be changed or replaced.

“I spent a lot of time thinking, honestly,” his knife carving little holes all over the candle that he was making. “How could I make a candle that will never burn out?”

Eventually he revealed to me his little secret. What he did, was that he collected the waxes of used candles – the candles tears – and heated it over and over again. It was so condensed and so concentrated, that it became almost pure wax, nothing but the essence of condensed wax. It was wax that was never diluted, never bought from outside, never taken from brand new candles, but it was once an ordinary candle that was lit, burnt out and recollected. This wax will burn even longer than normal wax – since it is concentrated – and it burns brighter – since it’s made of purer wax than the rest.

After collecting the essence of the candle, he moulded the wax into the shape of a hollow cylindrical tube, empty in the middle. Then he inserted a little metal rod with holes all over the metal rod into that moulded wax. Finally, the wig was stuffed unto the candle tip.

“A perfect candle, my friend.” He picked up that candle and smiled.

Why the hole-y metal rod in the middle? I asked.

It will be used to refill the candle. The wax, no matter how concentrated and how pure, will always run dry. It will always run out one day, so to stop it from dying and being burnt out, wax will be pumped from below the candle upwards, and refilling it sideways to replenish the wax that was once used up.

A masterpiece, he claimed. Satisfied, he gently put down the candle.

I wondered, how long it took him to produce that one candle. Reading my mind, he smiled and threw the question back to me. “How long would it take you to use hundreds or thousands of candles?” Years, I replied. That’s if I only use a candle a night. “Exactly.” The desired answer came as swift as my reply.

Another question popped into my little brain, How many more candles would he need to make? This time, I spoke my mind. He tilted his head into the air, engaged in some air-ithmetic for a moment, and looked back onto the desk where the candle was laid to rest, “As many as this world needs.”

A strong and sturdy candle! Wow! I exclaimed. It must be the best in the world. One that will never burn out, one that will stand strong, one that can light up the surrounding like no other. Isn’t that just amazing? This world is now a better and safer place! Kudos to the great candle maker! Thank God for people like him that choose to make a difference by making this world safer!

Instead of responding as enthusiastically as me, suddenly the smile on his face vanished. Sorrow took over and a bowed curve, written along his forehead. Why the sorrow, I asked curiously.

“You see my son, this candle, though was made to be strong,” he paused to release a sigh. “It will still melt like any other candle. Though it’s the essence of many many burnt candles, it will still melt and burn out too. Unless someone replenishes it, it too will run dry and become useless like any other candle you buy from the store.”

Like any other candle, that candle of steel will still weep. No matter how hard or how long to make it, it still serves the same function like any other, it still goes through the same tears as any other candle. But unlike the rest, for what that steel candle went through, it was made to last and not die.

In the candle maker’s very own words, “Its tears, are the most precious of all, the most painful of all, the most treasured of all. It’s one tear, is the tears of many others that it had to go through.” And he spoke no more of that candle called steel, and went back to make many more.

The Porcupine

He spent a lot of time thinking, pondering, wondering, a little questioning here and there, some scribbling and jotting down notes here and there on rough papers that he will never pick up till eternity - helps him get organize he claims -, but other thann that, he spent most of the time thinking.

It's funny how an army private can sometimes dumbfound a staff sergeant. Not that it happens most of the time elsewhere in other countries since regulations and discipline is always utmost priority until it stifles communication and interaction. In Zanotopia, soldiers of different ranks and positions stay at the same bunks, work in same units and groups, and are almost indifferent where rank and profile are concern, thus the freedom of speech among the hierachy.

It was during training. The whole batallion was running and doing the normal drills as usual. And as usual too, the troops in the units will always remove their shirts. Some say it helps to get the sweat off your shirt - save some water on the extra amount of dirty clothes that has to be washed - other thinks it's an opportunity to flex their muscles to each other. Not that they're trying to get attention from each other, especially when they're of same (or similar) gender, it's the ego that's at stake.

Unusually, however, the staff sergeant will wear his shirt. More than just a shirt, but the complete army outfit. Many have wondered, but not many dare to ask. More so that the SS is well known for his temper, lousy attitude and impatience. Never takes 'no' as an answer, never accepts 'sir I think you're wrong' as a response, never accepts failures, and seldom - if not never at all - encourages questions asked.

The irony then comes when it didn't take someone from a position above his to throw him that question, but someone new, fresh, no almost nuts about the military, to 'make him wonder'.

"Sir, while everyone runs without their gear and outfit during the drills, why do you do that?" the private asked.

The question of course stunned the SS for a while. He never expected a junior to throw such a question at him. His colleagues and bunk mates teased him before, but no one actually asked out of concern and care. Somehow, like always, his defense mechanism started was activated. Excuses and some barking around, telling him off for being a busybody and a warning to stop snooping around his business.

Interesting enough, that defense mechanism though activated, never worked out any results. He just stared at the junior, mouth ajar with no words said yet, and gazed into the eyes of the junior. From those little eyes beneath the ruffled hair trickling with sweat, he knew that this junior knew something about him.

"Sir, it can get a little heavy at times." I'm sorry if I'm being a busybody, maybe I'm not in a position to ask, but just so you know..

I'm concern, and we care about you sir.

The private trotted off to the dinner calls of his friends, leaving the SS behind, amid tired soldiers moving to the canteen, but alone in his thoughts. Drowned, he knew that in that sea of thoughts was an answer. Or he need not even look into those thoughts, he just need to lift up his shirt for those answers.

Quietly closing the door of his bathroom cubicle, he took of his armour piece by piece. Standing in front of the mirror, stark naked, completely stripped off his armour, he saw what he never wanted others to see. Unhidden by any piece of garment, the bruises of his torments were clear and evident. The marks of a suffered and tortured ex-prisoner of war, the traits of an abused soldier back in the old regiment, the scars of a defeated soldier.

All this while, he knew so surely, that if anyone saw those bruises that will never fade, those scars that will never heal, he will be discriminated. The army perception is that the weak will never be fit for the army, the sick don't deserve to be a part of Zanotopia's elite military force, the defeated are never regarded as soldiers. At the back of his mind, he can imagine himself losing all opportunities to rise even further in the ranks. He saw himself isolated and secluded, rejected and discredited despite the stars and stripes he won for himself, despite the lengths he covered in the battlefield, just because he was defeated.

Sick, a disease in the mind. Bruise, more than just a blue-back mark across his back and chest, but a spot in his heart that hurts when applied pressure.

Later the evening he met up with Nire. Wasn't he glad that he had that opportunity to be at the side of someone who would finally understand. She was always the good listener. He would spill his thoughts to the floor - that's where his eyes were glued at everytime he talked 'with' her - and she would just listen, absorb, be a part of the scenario he was in, and finally and most importantly, the advice.

"You know," she broke the long silence after he concluded his problem. "The question is more than just why aren't you prepared to let people see what is inside you, but rather, what is it that you can't accept about yourself."

Second stunner in a single day. He exhaled heavily along with a sigh.

You still can't accept yourself for what you are, can you? I can't. I just can't. Expectations. Overidealistic dreams. What are you? A robot that can be repaired? God that is divine and untouchable? You're made of flesh and bones, blood and breath, like anyone of us, you're still human, you're still vulnerable like anyone else, and you carry what all of us too carry.

"Finally someone pricked you at a soft spot huh?" she poked him. He nodded slowly. His past has always been his soft spot. His memories, at times, haunts him. Often he asks himself, do I still live in the shadows of my past, and far too often, he allowed himself to believe so.

Right now, who knows, he might be thinking twice of running the way everyone else in the army runs. Hopefully he will be able to take those heavy armours adorning him off one day. If that day really comes, it will because it took a brave junior with enough discernment to take that step up, with nothing more but care as a needle and curiosity as the prick, to poke the SS at a place where he needs to be pricked. Like a clogged vessel, the blood can only flow when an exit is made. The private, like a porcupine and its prick, or maybe like a doctor with the surgical tools, made that exit for him.

"Give Me Back What is Mine"

Based on A True Story

I will never forget that night. My dad slapped me. He slapped me and was almost shouting at me. He was so angry, so mad, so furious.

I stole something from him. It's really no big deal, it's just something small and cheap - now that I look back to think - and it's so insignificant. It's not like I stole a nuclear bomb and planned to destruct the whole world, or the family pendant that I took to a pawn shop.

It was just a little handkerchief. A small, cotton handkerchief that I liked very very much. It had a nice little flower pattern at the bottom left corner, and a brown frame half a cm from the borders of the handkerchief. It was soft and it was smooth, and I loved it very much.

Stumbling upon that handkerchief for the first time in my parents' room, it was lying on the floor, like it belonged to nobody. But of course, despite my age, I could have already deduced by then that if it was on the floor in my parents' room, then it had to belong to my parents. I picked it up, brought it to my mother and asked her whether I could have it.

"It's not mine, it's your dad's. Go ask him."

And my heart sank. I knew that I would never be able to have it. My dad is a stingy man. He will never give me what I want. Even a small toy or an ice-cream, I was dead sure that if I were to ask him, I'd be better off not asking for it in the very first place. If I wanted something real badly, it would have to be asked from my mother, and not my dad.

Secretly, I kept the handkerchief. I wanted it very badly. It was nice to touch and hold. Especially when you are bored - after all, I was just a kid who had nothing better to do - I would just lie on the bed, and play with that handkerchief. It was my little companion from the first day I found it, and it was my source of happiness and imagination. I wrapped it around my head and played pirates, I put it over my mouth and I was a thief, I tied it on my knee and impersonated a limping soldier wounded in battle.

Later, the handkerchief became more than just a source of imagination, it became my little comfort zone. I'd come back from school emotionally bruised after being bullied by the kids in the kindergarten, and I'd lock myself up in the room and take out the handkerchief from under my bed, and start wiping my tears with it. Then holding it in my head, I'd talk to it as if as I was allowing the handkerchief to understand what I was going through. There were the times that I thought it didn't know what I was talking about, and I'd get so fed-up of it and will just throw it around, only to feel bad for treating my 'good friend' that way, pick it up, wipe the dust of it and rub it lovingly again.

But alas, my dad found out about the handkerchief, and trust me, he sure was furious.

"How dare you take something from me without permission?" He bellowed. That was stealing, he claimed.

But you already have so many handkerchiefs, why couldn't I just take that one? Not like it means so much to you... And I refused to return that handkerchief. I love it so much, why couldn't I keep it? I'm taking very good care of it, I even wash it every week secretly. What's wrong?

"Give me back what is mine." he commanded. I refused. He repeated the command, and I still refused.

That did it. The slap came flying towards me and landed accurately on my cheek. Taken off by the blow, the impact sent me sprawling on the ground. Heat seared on my face, tears welled in my eyes, I grew even more resilient and angry.

"It wil never be yours!" I yelled and I ran up to my room.

Soon, things became very hostile between me and my dad. He became that angry and fearful man to me, and I will always dodge away from him when he comes into sight, even at home. Could you actually imagine a little 6-year-old kid avoiding his dad in his dad's house and home? Ridiculously hilarious, but that was me back then.

And I realized, that nothing will ever change, until and unless I surrender that handkerchief back to him.

There was only one reason why I refused to give the handkerchief up. I wanted it so badly, and that was only because I thought I found comfort in that handkerchief. To me, that handkerchief is my world. Eevrything to me. And I couldn't live without it.

One night, my dad walked into my room, sat down beside me on the bed, and looked at me. I nearly pissed in my pants, but as I saw into my dad's eyes, I saw so much love, so much forgiveness, so much kindness through his eyes. The evil dad that wouldn't even allow me to give me a small handkerchief, was now a gentle and loving dad.

"Son," he said softly while running his fingers through my hair. "It's not about the handkerchief, but when you steal something that's not yours, when you take something that's mine and not yours, how can I give you something better, that I have always wanted to give you?"

I hid my face underneath my blanket. Deep inside, I was so angry with myself that I made my dad so mad back then, and yet there's a struggle to surrender the handkerchief that I've grown so fond of up. I didn't want to lose a little possession, but I didn't want to make my dad angry either.

"Will you give me back what is mine?" This time, the gentle voice over the blanket, prompted me to do the right thing.

Pulling out the handkerchief from under my pillow, I held it in my palms and gazed at it for a last time. Thank you for everything you've been to me, little handkerchief. Controlling my tears and my feelings, I slowly handed the handkerchief back to my dad. A little smile carved across his face as I gently dropped the cloth into my dad's palm.

With one hand stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket, he pulled out another handkerchief with the other hand from a different pocket. He took my little hand, and firmly gave me that new handkerchief. A brand new handkerchief, it was far smoother and silkier than the cotton handkerchief. It had embroidery and was made of silk linen, and had the most sophisticated golden designs all across the handkerchief. Later I discovered it was a silk fabric imported from Italy, and it was worth a treasure to many people.

"The best things in life comes," he paused to look at me again, "when you make that choice to give me what I want so I can give you things that are even better."

That handkerchief still stays in my pocket till now. If I knew that I could have got a better handkerchief from Italy than the one found on the floor, I would have never even looked at the floor, but would have straight looked up to my dad, and asked for it, believing that though he will not say yes immediately, he will never let me not have what is best for me.