Poem: November 22, on Instagram

In Memory of Grandpa Supote & Grandma Hui Hiang 

“I wish you happiness, always: 

in the blooming flowers of springtime 

in the sky where stars align, 

and in the meantime, 

everyone will live their best lives 

until we all meet again...” 

was my Instagram caption. 

But, I was never worthy of writing anything fancy like that.  

Not for you. Not about you. Not on this one gloomy day. 

Not when I barely visited you, despite everyone else giving you all their time. Not when I made the trip up north, more for sightseeing  

than for cherishing fleeting moments with you, Grandpa. 

Not when I barely understood any word you said because of your mixed accent yet never tried to figure it out, Grandma. 

Not when I thought of writing that caption even before any of you were gone. What was it that I wanted to capture? 

Number of likes? Number of consoling comments? 

Number of people who were more than just followers? 

A year passed, and I think I know now. 

What I wanted the world to know: exactly as I wrote. 

What I wanted to say, truthfully, from me to you: still – exactly – as I wrote. 

I might have been a corrupt digital age child. I might have cried just because I was supposed to. But, there were still the both of you in every letter I ever typed and deleted. 

Keep? – No.

Delete? – No.

Archive? – Archived.