by Jeannie Hua
The older you get, the easier it is to remember things from twenty years ago than what you had for dinner the night before. When my dad died, I wrote it down to remember, even though it was so painful. Why? Because when you forget something important, you lose a part of yourself. When I decided to pursue a degree in creative writing, it was because I wanted to write about the cases I had as a criminal defense attorney. When Seth, our esteemed editor suggested that we draw from our personal experiences, I wanted to dip back to my journal and write about my dad. By writing about him, he remains alive in my head.
I could say that remembering and writing about losing a parent is like performing an autopsy on a live person. But I won’t. Dipping back into my memory made me think of the little details, such as where the money tree was. What the hell is a money tree? It’s a tree that Chinese people put in their houses in the proper fengsui position to encourage wealth. While the tree didn’t work for my parents, it looked very nice in the corner of the family room. But even the little objects reminded me of what it stood for and their purpose. Money tree = my parents need for money and status as validation of their worth. They’re not alone, a lot of Chinese people are like that. Hell, a lot of people are like that.
While the story is loosely based on the circumstances around my dad’s death, the ending is as true as the white roots growing out of my neglected hair. As many times as my dad and I fought, and at the height of my frustrations, as much as I hated hearing my dad telling me no matter what, he will always be my dad. He was right. Even after death, he still is my dad.