Sek Pau Mei

The misadventures of the heart and sometimes, the stomach.

Midnight Supper Series: Hokkien Mee

Daddy is a man of few words and even fewer gifts. 

Growing up, he was always around but at the same time, distant. I suppose it’s the language barrier. Coming from a poor family background, Daddy’s English wasn’t great and his daughter was a banana at best. 

Communicating was difficult at times. He struggles to convey his feelings and doesn’t understand when I wax lyrical about mine.

But Daddy shows his love in other ways. 

When my heart was broken, he didn’t have the words to comfort me. 

He doesn’t offer words of advice, nor tell me things that I already know. He didn’t try to find fault in him, nor scrutinize his daughter for what’s wrong.

It didn’t matter who’s the saint or who’s the sinner. Cause when it comes to heartbreak, there are no winners.

Instead,

He would come into my room when it’s late and he knows I am not asleep.

Gather all of me in his arms while my face crumple and leak, and I dissolve into a mess of what was a person.

He would listen to my endless monologues, punctuated by sobs and hiccups.

He doesn’t say anything when my tears soak into his shirt.

And I would think that he didn’t care, but the next day, he would slave at the stove for hours on end;

Ah Girl, Papa made you Hokkien mee.

Tell Papa what else you want to eat. We will make all of your favourite food. 

Anything you want, as long as you stop crying.

 


I was wrong.
Time doesn’t heal broken hearts. Love does.

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Comments
  1. Sha-Lene 26th March 2015 on 5:58 pm Reply

    This put tears in my eyes!

  2. iaremunyee 27th March 2015 on 2:26 am Reply

    Dear Sha-Lene

    It's amazing how love can be shown in the smallest of gestures, no?

  3. HeMz 30th March 2015 on 6:32 am Reply

    The little things that makes a great difference…

  4. Anonymous 9th April 2015 on 1:04 am Reply

    Why.

    Why has the anguish swamped these walls.

    I come here, away from your main blog, to escape your pain, your anguish, the wound in your heart.
    It is too real. Too familiar. Too painful to remember.

    I come here hoping the walls will hold.

    I come hoping the pain and darkness will not enter, and I'll have a little sanctuary, if for a little while, if for a few minutes only.

    I come to let your words go under my skin, be happy a while, smile a bit, allow the drug to slowly seep in, allow me to forget reality a while.

    I come to read your silly stories, laugh, chuckle, wonder my my my, this is some good shit!
    I loved reading your Cheecheongfun, it was, and still is, my favourite of the midnight supper series.
    I loved your Barley, I've never jumped fences but it is still very familiar territory.
    I loved your Battered Husbands, I loved the last bit that it was husbands who loved their wives, I thought you'd be more vicious with males after what you've been through.

    Did you know that I have laughed so hard at your shit story?
    Did you know that I have read and re-read your Cheecheongfun story so many times, but still laughed out loud every time?
    Did you know that it was like a drug to me, waiting and waiting for the next comedic story blatantly disguised behind some food blog?
    Did you know that when I saw the Hokkien Mee, I dropped everything, jumped in, started to let your words filter through me as my favourite drug?

    But only to suddenly feel the drift of the Hokkien Mee story turn away from the light, turn away from happiness and silliness, and turn to pain and sorrow again.
    I stepped through this door hoping to greet sunshine and smiles but found greyness, darkness.
    The story that I wanted was not there, the drug that I so desperately wanted, so desperately needed, was not there.

    I hope you can be happy MY, hope you can find joy…
    So that you can brew your happy funny silly smiley drug again….!

    *Addict Anonymous*

    • iaremunyee 11th April 2015 on 5:04 am Reply

      Addict Anonymous.

      Your addiction to my words flatter me, warms the very cockles of my heart – thank you.

      I know that pain fuels the pen. I wished that weren't so. That I could fully remove myself from my writing. But I do not know how. A piece of me must die in order for these words to come to life. And despite the many warnings, the alarm bells going off in my head, that I must not wallow, I cannot stay in this place of sorrow and pain. That I should only ever visit, get on a few rides, buy a shirt and leave.

      But I stayed. I stood still and let waves of sorrow wash over me like some sick baptism ritual.

      The pain was old, the wound has scabbed over but I sit there and pick at it until it bleeds again.

      Should I apologize for my creative process? Should i stop? I do not know.

      I would understand if you stopped reading because my words depress you. But more so, I would like you to keep the faith, that one day I would go back to climbing gates and getting indigestions.

      Thank you for reading and please accept my apology.

      My words were never meant to hurt.

      I wish you happiness and joy, in all that you do.

      x.

    • Anonymous 13th April 2015 on 1:30 am Reply

      ​​No​,​ your words did not hurt.

      But it was, as a door​ that was presented to me.

      A closed door.

      Though closed, I knew exactly what was on the other side.

      Why why why, I do not know, but I did what I should not. Willingly.

      So I put on my sunday best again, turned the handle, and headed out to the other side yet again.

      This place you call sorrow and pain, this carnival that you say we should just visit…
      I know this place so well, I used to come here often, no, I used to live here I think.

      That was when it was open, that was when the sun shone so warm, that was when music filled the air, ribibons and flags flapped gaily in the wind, balloons handed out by happy clowns.

      It is closed now​.

      But I'm still there, wandering aimlessly.
      I know the rides, the games so well, having been there so many times, laughing and being amused, after all, is'nt it an amusement park?

      But the Carousel still turns eerily​, the horses go up and down, up and down, again and again in infinity.​

      The ​rides still turn, ​music still plays, muted as if in a dream​.

      I'm not sure what I'm doing there, it has long closed and​ is​ deserted.
      ​W​hy am ​I​ the only one here?
      Why ​do I keep choosing to come to this carnival?

      —————–​

      Ah… Anon-J commented in your 'Let Go' asked ..'is it a true story…?'
      Is this in jest?
      I laugh, because it starts to verge on lunacy, no?

      ​I see the other many comments, they come with pain, similar, different, or just moved by your emotions.

      ​Myself, ​I cannot offer any words ​of ​wisdom
      I cannot offer any solace
      I cannot offer any hugs
      For I ​have not been where you have​, nor do I try to begin to, I am just a spent force.

      Your words are so real ​and ​so clear​.
      Your emotions just lift right off the screen and touch hearts.

      No, you shall not stop writing.
      You have struck many a chord with your readers​.
      It is good.​
      Very good.

      And I will not stop reading.

      *Addict Anonymous*

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