Let the Rest Do the Rest

A break in the emotional cloud that had enveloped my whole being came later that night when my son reached out from Scotland. I had just held the first New Year’s Eve party without my mother who passed away earlier that month. He sent a message that, despite its utter simplicity, resonated deeply with the fragile state of my soul and the turbulent mood of the world. He wished me a “good 2026.” The phrasing struck me with startling perspicuity; it felt appropriate, realistic, and profoundly correct in a way that conventional well-wishes never could. It wasn’t a superficial ‘happy new year,’ which felt laughably optimistic given the circumstances. It wasn’t an overly ambitious ‘prosperous one,’ suggesting material gains while the emotional ledger was deep in the red. Nor was it burdened with the hollow, inevitable broken promises of new year resolutions.

Just good.

Good, I realised with a sudden gratitude, was enough. Good, in fact, was perhaps the highest aspiration one could genuinely hold. Good was, arguably, even hard to achieve, given the escalating, visible fractures in the once-solid political bedrock of Europe and the strained, essential unity of NATO. The global landscape was a cauldron of relentless turmoil, driven primarily by the increasingly destabilising Trumpian edicts of “might is right”—a cold, brutish doctrine in which the concept of a traditional ally or perceived or manufactured foe is rendered utterly meaningless, of no consequence whatsoever to the wannabe dictator’s sweeping, aggressive land-grab hallucinations.

In this shifting, cynical environment, the West’s much-vaunted “rules-based order” had become an irrelevance, a casualty of its own hypocrisy. Its effective death occurred the moment the supposedly compliant vassal states—the smaller nations reliant on the framework—realised with chilling clarity that their own complicity in using this convenient slogan was backfiring spectacularly on them. The sickening, undeniable realisation dawned that it wouldn’t be just the traditional third-world countries subjected to modern-day colonisation or resource exploitation; they, the so-called loyal allies, too, would be strategically targeted, destabilised, or dismantled if they possessed any resource or geographical advantage of value that the declining hegemon desired. The rules, it turned out, only applied to those without the capacity to break them.

Amidst this gloomy contemplation of personal loss and international decay, the accompanying photograph he sent served as a calm, visceral anchor. It captured him raising his glass to me—a silent, digital toast—in front of the perfectly cooked plate of steak he had just prepared. The image, warm with domestic light and the simple effort of a son caring for his father, improved my mood instantly. It offered a simple, grounding counterpoint, a tangible reminder of caring and love that stood in defiant opposition to the cold, abstract anxieties of political collapse and the heavy, pervasive shroud of recent loss. The personal, I recognised, was a necessary outpost against the gathering, gloomy threats of the political world.

“Three minutes each side, right, and rest it for three minutes?” I asked, revealing the method I would have cooked the steak.

“One minute 20 secs, each side on hot pan, then under foil and cloth to rest,” he replied.

“Rest about eight to ten minutes,” he added.

“Let the rest do the rest,” he suggested.

I looked at his photograph again. His face reflected a deep calmness that soothed me. His countenance was a study in profound peace, a mirror of serenity that belied their recent sorrow. A calm reflection of enviable contentment radiated from him, an almost transcendent acceptance of the circular world, death follows life and then, rebirth. This tranquility was his silent, yet powerful, message to his father: a solemn assurance that the current of life would continue, and with it, a reminder for his father to rest his troubled mind and weary body.

Let the rest do the rest.

The arrival of 2026 was marked not by jubilant expectation, but by a quiet, profound acknowledgement that “good enough” would have to suffice, a concession made in the wake of a loss that had reshaped my new reality. My mother’s demise, occurring less than a month before the arbitrary turning of the calendar page, had cast a long, tender shadow over the new year.

The preceding weeks had already been a brutal initiation into a world without her physical presence, culminating in the first Christmas and the first New Year’s Eve—celebrations historically anchored by her warmth and energy—that now felt strangely hollowed out. Yet, these were only the beginning. The year ahead would stretch out, a series of painful yet necessary “firsts” waiting to be encountered, each a fresh reminder of her absence: the first Chinese New Year gathering, where her gentle smiles and laughter and delight to clink wine glasses would be sorely missed; the first Easter, stripped of the joy she brought to family gatherings; the first birthday celebrations, where her presence and unwavering attention would be a poignant gap; and, most heartbreakingly, the first Mother’s Day, now a commemoration of a life that was.

She was more than just a family member; she was the indisputable matriarch, the strong, unwavering pillar upon which generations had leaned. Her loss was not just personal grief, but the shattering of a lineage milestone—she was the first and, to this point, the only centenarian in our family, and now, a memory to a life lived fully, rich with experience, wisdom, and boundless love. Stepping into 2026 meant stepping into the immense space she had left behind, navigating the quiet echoes of her life could bring more bouts of emotional outpouring.

The outward expression of loss, the public mantle of mourning and death, was but the surface layer. Yet, beneath this visible grief, a deeper truth was struggling to be revealed. Like the technique of pentimento—where earlier images or brushstrokes, long painted over, begin to show through the succeeding layer of paint—so too did the faint, true picture of her great personal stories begin to emerge. The layer of recent sorrow was thin enough to allow the essential, underlying canvas to be seen: a life that was richly and deliberately painted with the indelible colours of motherly love and profound personal sacrifice. This was the enduring masterpiece, the genuine portrait of a mother’s love that time and death could not diminish. It was the legacy that persisted beyond the grave, offering comfort to the living and a final, peaceful farewell.

The sense of her enduring presence was recently heightened by a visit, a few nights ago, during the last half hour of her final day in this realm—the 49th day of her passing. Almost asleep, a sudden, unmistakable whiff of fragrance jolted me from my stupor – that of her favourite white flowers from our childhood home in Penang. This fragrance, similar to the orange jasmine here in Adelaide, typically blooms in spring or early summer, and a check the following morning confirmed the neighbour’s plants were not in bloom. Furthermore, the scent was definitively internal, as the Mrs insists on tightly shut windows to eliminate dust.

Let the rest do the rest. This simple phrase now carries a profound message, suggesting a necessary surrender to the natural process of grieving and healing.

Ahma, may you rest in eternal peace.

Goodbye is the Hardest Word

Ahma lived to 102. I had written many stories about her, a sixty-five minute read actually. But, I was asked to be brief, to distill a century into a mere five minutes. So, Ahma, forgive me for being brief.

Ahma’s name is Xu Mei Lan anglicised as Chee Moay Lan. Each character is a mirror reflecting her soul. Xu means slowly and gently, like the flow of a stream. Mei is the plum flower and Lan is grace and elegance. Anyone who knew her will know how perfectly her name described her life.
She did not take our father’s surname, out of filial piety, to her own family—a Confucian tradition she carried with quiet dignity. To many, she was Mrs Chee. To us, she was simply Ahma.

She married Ahpa at seventeen, in 1940. She was beautiful—porcelain skin, swan-like poise—always elegant in her cheongsam, even though her roots were humble. She was not born in Shanghai or Ningbo, as many assumed, but on a rubber plantation in Bagan Datoh, where her father worked as a dhobi man. Refinement, for Ahma, was not cultivated. It was innate.

She survived war, poverty, displacement, and loss. These shaped her lifelong frugality. I remember following her to the wet market as a child, where she would haggle fiercely over the smallest denomination—a single cent. Vendors would visibly brace themselves when they saw her coming. With eight children, one apple was sliced into eight equal pieces—and if one slice was thicker, a sliver would be cut off to restore fairness.

Yet this same woman sent all her children overseas for education—sometimes against her husband’s wishes. In the years after World War II, this was extraordinary. She believed education was the only way out of poverty, and she made it happen for her children.

Ahma had little formal schooling—only eight months in Malaya and two years in Ningbo—but she possessed a formidable mind. Her memory was astonishing. She remembered birthdays, anniversaries, grocery prices, historical events such as dates when her children first left home and when they returned, and the weather. Long before weather apps, she was our weather girl. Her memory was precise, immutable—like a blockchain ledger that never lost a record.

Ahma was the eldest child in her family. She had hoped to be a teacher. At the time, anyone with five years of education could become a teacher; she was halfway to reaching her ambition. But, all hopes of that died with Ngagung, her dad. In February 1936, Ngagung contracted Typhoid and passed away. In those days, when the sole provider of a family dies, usually hope dies too for those left behind. She was only thirteen years old.

She was meticulous, a perfectionist, right to the end. Earlier this year, I watched her cut a piece of cold toast into six perfect squares, carefully brushing crumbs aside before taking a bite. Her mantra was balance: not too hot, not too cold, not too fast, and certainly, never wasteful.
“Ok, ma, let’s go. Slowly and carefully,” I said to her as she rearranged the crumbs on her plate, she replied simply, “I can only be slow.” Perhaps that slowness was her secret to living to a hundred and two—with hardly any medication at all.

She endured unimaginable, silent grief. In 1948, she suffered a miscarriage at six months. In 1949, she miscarried twice more and lost a newborn son who survived just long enough to offer his parents a smile. In her mind, they were always part of the family. She remembered them on every anniversary, faithfully, quietly.

Her greatest joy in life was her eight children, seventeen grandchildren, and twelve great-grandchildren. Any gathering brought her immense happiness. She loved parties and the clinking of wine glasses, which was why we regularly took her to her favourite restaurant, The Empress, almost every weekend. At 99, she outlasted many of us at a New Year’s Eve celebration and did not want to leave well after midnight.

Ahpa and Ahma were married for sixty seven years until his death in 2007. He affectionately called her his “lor tha bo,” his “old woman,” with a chuckle. Surprisingly, theirs was not a match-made alliance. She chose Ahpa—a lanky, handsome man with a dry-cleaning shop two doors down from her uncle’s dhobi shop.The other candidate was from Fujian, a rice farmer with ten acres of land. Asked why she picked Ahpa, she replied, “I saw myself slaving away in the rice field, rain or shine. Hard life.”
“The other was tall and handsome. Fair-skinned. Ambitious. Skilled in a good trade.”

She avoided the Japanese attack on China just before WW2 but was caught in the terror when they bombed Penang. My generation, which has never experienced war firsthand, is ignorant of the sheer tenacity required to survive years of hunger and hardship. Ahpa survived twelve brutal days in a Japanese jail; Ma endured those days alone, with great anxiety, fear and vulnerability yet, with mental resilience and maintained a low profile and composure in public.

The habits of survival die hard. Right up until her final days before moving into the nursing home, Ahma would enthusiastically “clean” her dinner plate at the dining table. Due to the length of time she needed to consume a meal, the minutest crumbs and dried-up sauce would often coat her plate. Every speck would be lifted by a small amount of water or soup, before being scooped up gently with a spoon. Every drop was consumed purposefully. She was fundamentally incapable of being wasteful—a thriftiness none of us truly understood, because none of us had lived through the war that forged it.

She lasted almost seven months in the nursing home, bed-bound with no hope of a miraculous recovery. Her question to me, posed in her native Ningbo dialect, “Yu so beh fa?” – is there any other option? – revealed a poignant awareness, a flicker of understanding regarding her circumstances, despite the severe dementia she was suffering from. In that question was awareness, acceptance, and grace. I told her she was loved, that she was cared for, that her children loved her very much. I held her hand—the same hand that had fed us, clothed us, protected us—and I whispered, “Goodnight, Ahma.” I could not bring myself to say goodbye on my last visit just before my trip to Europe.

While wandering along the side streets of La Rambla in Barcelona, I paused to read the words on my phone. I shouted to my sister who was meters in front, “Sufong, Ahma just passed away!”

Death is not the end; it is a quiet transition into another world – like sunset giving way to night. Some of us hold the deep conviction that we will be reunited with Ahma and Ahpa one day. There is dignity, serenity and love, not sadness or despair.

Ahma did not seek greatness, yet she embodied it. She did not lead nations or make scientific discoveries, but she raised generations through sheer sacrifice, unwavering fairness, incredible resilience, and unconditional love. To me, she was the greatest mother anyone could have.
And though her life here has ended, the legacy she bestowed upon us will never be diminished.

Gluck’s The Dance of the Blessed Spirits, the flute piece which was played earlier, was about peace, purity and release. Serenity, actually. It evokes a mother’s gentleness – care, tenderness, and watchfulness.

Later, you will hear Strauss’s Im Abendrot. As the poet writes, after a long journey, one may finally rest and ask, not in fear but in peace, “Is this perhaps death?” I think it aligns with my closing thought that death is a transition, not an end.

Strauss asks, “Is this death?”

Gluck answers, “This is peace.”

Ahma, as you go beyond mountains and rivers, may you rest in peace.

Alak ho chong ai nong.

The Other Day at The Other Art Fair II

Sydney greeted the Old Man and his Mrs with a gentle warmth, a stark contrast to the grey skies that had threatened their arrival. The air, thick with the promise of a pleasant day, hung still and inviting. The harbour turned a vibrant blue and seemed to deepen under the balmy expanse above, mirroring the optimistic shift in the weather. The heavy pregnant clouds that shadowed their descent had vanished with surprising speed, a fleeting memory that would not mar their brief sojourn in the city.

“It feels good to be back again,” he said to his Mrs who had promptly unbuckled her seat belt as the plane taxied to a halt. It was a need to break free whenever she felt restrained or suffocating in a confined space like in a car. It was therefore habitual for her to unclick her seatbelt before they even reached the driveway of their home.

Their purpose in Sydney was to celebrate the artistic achievements of her sister, who was a featured artist in a prominent exhibition. The rest of their party had arrived the previous day, and their first order of business was a leisurely lunch at Circular Quay, conveniently located a short train ride from the airport. Travelling light was their preferred mode, each of them managing with just a single piece of cabin luggage, which they cheerfully wheeled along the eastern promenade. The small rollers of their bags created a sporadic, rhythmic clicking against the paved boardwalk, a lighthearted soundtrack to their reunion.

It wasn’t long before the midday sun compelled them to seek refuge behind the oversized plastic menus offered by the harbourside restaurant. These large placards served a dual purpose, providing both shade from the intense glare and a temporary shield, allowing them a moment to defer the inevitable decision of what to order. His Mrs, perusing the offerings, voiced a distinct disapproval for a particular dish that had been suggested for another member of their party.

“It’s not about you!” he retorted, his tone sharper than perhaps intended.

She visibly recoiled, a flicker of hurt in her eyes, but chose to let the comment pass without immediate confrontation. Although she let it slide, a mental note was made, the incident carefully filed away in the vast archives of their shared history, to be retrieved and deployed at a more opportune moment. Their marriage, spanning what felt like an immeasurable length of time, had equipped them both with a well-honed arsenal of grievances, both real and imagined, ready to be deployed in future skirmishes. It was a certainty that before long, she would gently, yet firmly, steer the conversation towards the uncomfortable truths of his sometimes overbearing nature and perceived coldness, using the lunchtime remark at Circular Quay as a prime example of his shortcomings as a husband.

The other day at The Other Art Fair, the air was electric and everyone’s mood was charged with positive ions. The mood of the attendees and the artists alike was buoyant, filled with a sense of possibility. Every displayed piece of artwork held the potential for a life beyond the gallery walls, the promise of a sale hanging in the air. It was a space where optimism thrived, where life felt particularly vibrant.

The preceding evening had been marked by a fun-filled celebration, no specific occasion needed beyond the simple joy of togetherness and the appreciation of the present moment. The few among them who enjoyed wine had shared three bottles of Penfolds Bin 28, generously provided by their host, a teetotaler. While considered an entry-level offering from the world-renowned Barossa wine producer, the number 28 held a special significance in Cantonese, signifying “easy prosperity,” thus imbuing the label with an auspicious aura.

All the while though, the Old Man buried his troubled mind from spewing out into the open and kept concealed the deep undercurrent of worry and sadness. He was determined not to cast a shadow over the celebratory mood or diminish the enjoyment of his companions. News of his mother’s declining health had reached him even before his departure, but her condition had taken a significant turn for the worse. By the time his plane touched down in Sydney, one of his sisters had made the difficult decision to admit their 101-year-old mother to the Royal Adelaide Hospital, RAH to the locals. Her frail body had listed precariously to one side, her left hand frozen in an unnatural position.

The stark reality that she could no longer stand unaided had made it undeniably clear that she required professional medical attention. While a CT scan was deemed too risky for someone of her advanced age, the doctors had swiftly diagnosed a mini-stroke. The implications were clear: she could no longer be cared for in the familiar comfort of her own home. In ordinary circumstances, securing a place in a nursing home could take months, and even when one became available, a multitude of factors would need careful consideration. Would the quality of care be adequate? Would the facility be clean and well-maintained, or would it carry the unpleasant odor of neglect or worse, would the ghosts of residents long deceased still roam about the corridors? Would she be relegated to a shared room, and if so, could she comfortably coexist with a stranger around the clock? What about the essential facilities and medical equipment? Would the food be nutritious and palatable? Would they include Chinese dishes? And perhaps most importantly for her family, would the location be convenient enough for frequent visits? The one blessing was money would not be an issue. Their mother had ample saved up.

In what felt like a miraculous convergence, it seemed as though all the divine entities she had invoked in her long life had responded in unison, granting their affirmative blessings. Yet, for the Old Man’s mother, this was not the outcome she desired. The prospect of ending her days in a nursing home was deeply unsettling. After enduring the hardships of poverty, surviving the tumultuous years of the Japanese occupation, and diligently working to build a secure future for her children, she recoiled at the thought of relinquishing all that she had striven for in exchange for a small, unfamiliar room and a meager collection of personal belongings, all in one crumpled plastic bag.

They had managed to secure a spacious private room for her in a bright and welcoming facility, offering a pleasant view of a garden adjacent to an open-air parking area. The Old Man was scheduled to bring her there after his trip to Sydney, to introduce her to the concept of respite care should the need arise. Instead, her doctor at the RAH had resolved the matter for them. There would be no opportunity for her to voice her objections, no room for negotiation. The course had been set, not by her own will, but by necessity. No amount of pleading, tears, or defiant gestures, even the threatened brandishing of her walking stick (should she possess the strength), would alter the predetermined path. In the end, their formidable matriarch, who had always commanded through sheer willpower or the unwavering force of maternal love, could only accept her fate. She was now destined to tread a path that many would find profoundly disheartening – entering an unfamiliar room in an alien environment, to be cared for by strangers for the remainder of her days.

The Old Man’s return from Sydney was driven by a deep-seated need that went beyond the logistical updates provided by his siblings. He carried with him the weight of familial responsibility and a profound longing to witness firsthand his mother’s condition. The spectre of her advancing dementia loomed large in his mind, painting a grim picture of confusion, emotional turmoil, and the irrationality that often accompanies the fading of cognitive function. He braced himself for an encounter with a woman lost in the labyrinth of her own mind, a stark contrast to the vibrant matriarch he once knew. The relentless march of her dementia had accelerated with cruel speed, leaving her adrift in a sea of forgotten memories and distorted perceptions. The son who had once held a cherished place in her heart was now a stranger, a figure upon whom she inexplicably unleashed scorn and even hatred. The unfamiliarity of his aging appearance, marked by long, unkempt hair, coupled with the intimate act of bathing her during a period when his siblings were unable – only because she vigorously and viciously fought them off, triggered a profound sense of violation and resentment. In her clouded mind, he was no longer her beloved son but an intruding “Zong Sa,” a term signifying “wild born,” a label laden with unfamiliarity and perhaps a primal sense of otherness. He was a ghost of her past, a son erased by the relentless tide of the disease.

Yet, amidst this heartbreaking alienation, a flicker of recognition sparked, a momentary parting of the heavy curtains of dementia during his visit. The old man had found his long-lost mother again. Later that evening, a wave of relief and a fragile sense of hope compelled him to write to his family. The words flowed with a mixture of pain, love and profound gratitude.

‘Ahma hasn’t been this clear headed and calm for a very long time,’ he typed, his hand perhaps shaking slightly. ‘She woke up and called me by my name. That in itself is quite rare these days.’ This simple act, the utterance of his name, was a beacon in the encroaching darkness, a fleeting return to the familiar shores of their shared past.

Her subsequent question, posed in her native Ningbo dialect, “yu so beh fa?” – is there any other option? – revealed a poignant awareness, a flicker of understanding regarding her circumstances. It was a question that hinted at acceptance, or at least a resignation to her fate. He seized this brief and rare moment of lucidity, offering her words of comfort and reassurance. He painted a picture of her new reality, emphasising the positive aspects: the attentive care, the spacious and clean environment, the dedicated carers. He acknowledged the inherent suffering of life and gently lied to her that her current situation was not so bleak.

‘Life is suffering, I said but this isn’t so bad. Surrounded by her children who will visit daily. Her room was pleasantly warm. She held my hand for a long time and I pointed out she’s only in a thin garment and she isn’t even cold whereas my house was already freezing cold. Two carers came in and she said “Omitofu” to the sweet young one, who spoke a few words of Mandarin to her, probably the full extent of her vocabulary. She asked who the other one was, an Indian girl whose silhouette against the light behind her made her unrecognisable. Soon after, ahma dozed off and I could hear a soft comforting snore from her.’

The Old Man leaned closer, his voice a gentle murmur against the quiet of the room. “Ahma,” he breathed, his gaze soft as he searched her aged wan face. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, were now clouded with the passage of time and suffering, yet he looked into them with unwavering affection, hoping the simple truth he was about to impart would find its way through the jumbled walls of her memory. “Your children,” he continued, each word weighted with love, “all love you very much.” He repeated it softly, a comforting affirmation in the stillness.

A wave of tenderness washed over him as he reached out, his weathered hand carefully taking hers. He held it gently, feeling the fragility beneath his touch, remembering all the years this hand had cared for them, fed them, clothed them, guided them, comforted them. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her wrinkled forehead, a silent expression of gratitude and enduring love. As he straightened, a lump formed in his throat, a bittersweet ache of love and the inevitable. With a final, tender look, he whispered, “Goodnight, Ahma,” a promise of rest, a gentle closing of the day. He deliberately omitted the word “goodbye,” his heart unwilling to utter such a finality, clinging instead to the hope of another dawn, another lucid moment.

The truth was he himself would rather not live for so long, till life became meaningless and loved ones became strangers. He had arrived at a disquieting personal truth: the prospect of extreme longevity held little allure. He found himself increasingly resistant to the notion of enduring beyond a natural span, envisioning a future where the vibrant tapestry of existence faded into a dull, repetitive and meaningless pattern. The thought of time stretching endlessly before him was not a comforting vista but a desolate expanse where purpose might erode and the sharp edges of memory could blur. More poignant still was the fear of outliving those he held dear, the agonising possibility of watching familiar faces become distant, their shared histories fading into the mists of time, ultimately leaving him adrift in a world populated by strangers who once were intimates. The very essence of a meaningful life, interwoven with connection and shared experience, threatened, as it has to his mother, to unravel in such a protracted and lonely, isolating existence.