A Vest

Translated…

On the weekend, I’d went on a stroll at the shopping mart with my dad.

My dad knew I was troubled by the ups and downs from work, didn’t say a single word, just tapped me, lightly on the shoulders, “Just do your best”.  And he’d recalled how I have this special preferences for vests, and, just pulled me to the clothing section to find some.

Actually, I’d just returned home not long ago, realized that my dad didn’t go out as he usually would, and, when he saw me as I walked in, he’d asked, “Do you want to go on a stroll together?”, I was stunned for a short bit, I’d told him fine.  And, mom was confused, kept shaking her head said, “Your dad’s been weird lately, you’d become affected by him too?”

We were going to the Siziwan.  But, it’s either that my father got too old, or, he miscalculated my weight, we’d rode the motorcycle unsteadily, and, we could only head toward the shopping strip nearby instead.

And still, there weren’t that many styles of vests available, pops suggested, “I have a cloth that could be made into a suit, if you get a vest made from it, it will look good.”, and, he’d rode me back home again.

My father rummaged through his closet for a very long time, finally, found that dark red piece of cloth, it was, simple and stable.  But, I saw that there were black, interwoven into the cloth, I’d started exclaiming, “It looks so GAY, I don’t like it!”  “It has black interwoven into it, that’s bad luck!”, and yet, my father still had the vest tailored secretly.

No matter how it’d rained, how strong the winds became, I’d still called hope every single night to say hi to my parents.

On the phone call on Friday, I’d told pops, that I’m busy recently, that I won’t make the trip home this weekend.  Pops said okay, then, continued, “are the Chinese woodoil trees in full bloom?  Do you want to reroute to Hsinchu instead?”  I’d heard my mother, mumbling beside him, “It’s only December, where ARE the woodoil flowers?”

The very next morn, my eldest sister called, my father had his third stroke, is in a coma, I rushed back to Kaohsiung immediately.

In the hospital, I saw my father’s limbs tied to the posts of the bed, he was struggling hard to get up, but just couldn’t manage.  I became just as panicky as he was, worked hard, in and out.  And, we both slowed, to a halt, with time.

During which time, I’d placed the vest I’d had tailored and my father’s things together.  But until a year and a half later, when the ambulance took my father back home, he’d never opened his eyes back up again, never saw me in the vest he made for me………

Awhile ago, I took my youngest daughter to an art competition.  Not knowing, that we’re to take our shoes off, it was, the coldest time in the spring, I found, that my daughter was barefoot, and started shivering, I’d immediately took my vest off, flipped it inside out, placed it underneath her feet, so she could get warm.

As we waited, I’d walked out to yard, lifted my head, saw that the Chinese woodoil trees are slowly blooming.  I’d recalled how my father and I still shared an unfinished dream, and recalled how odd his behaviors were back then, is it, his way, of making sure, that I’d accompanied him, on this last passage of his life?  My tears started falling down.

After the competitions were over, my daughter too, came out with tears down her cheeks.  After I’d inquired, turns out, she didn’t manage to finish her drawing in time.

I’d gotten that jolt, recalled how I was already a father, I’d tapped her lightly on the shoulders, said to her, “So long as you’d done your best.”  Just like my father had said to me back then.

My youngest daughter nodded, and, returned the vest back to me.

I looked at the vest, and, I was, overcome with that sense of happiness, as I’d received it, from the mail, when I was in the U.S. from my dad.  I’d taken a closer look, at the black threads in the dark-red cloth, it was, extremely similar, to how my father had carried me through the storms.  It’s just, how quickly, this road had ended.  And, I feel that strong sense of sorrow, quickly, taking over my heart.

I’d finally understood, that in that vest, what I was carrying, was, my father’s heart.

So, this, is an item your father left for you, and, it’s still NOT the item of the clothing that matter that much, it is still how much HEART goes into it, and, now the son is a father, he could better understand where his own father was coming from, because he can now, relate.