Grief & Laughter

After my dad's funeral service we had to travel two hours to the burial site in Kompong Cham, my mom's hometown province. We rented two tour buses to travel to the site for anyone who wished to come. The buses were  packed and my two best friends and I squeezed into two seats. The two hour journey was filled with chatter, though a solemn mood hung over us. In between light conversations about every day life, I wondered what it would feel like to watch my dad's casket lower into the ground and how much more I would cry.

The cemetery was on a small plot of land in the countryside just off the main road. Men and women in black pants and white tops gathered around. I was amazed at how many people came along to the burial site to say goodbye to my father. Many had come to the funeral service but it was unexpected that so many would travel four hours for the burial. Part of me wanted it to be a private family gathering but the other part of me wanted to honor my dad by having all these people participate. We sang hymns, prayed and said one last goodbye.

After more hot tears and hugs, my dad was buried. My father and my uncle, who passed in 2008, lay next to each other. To the left of the site was a vibrant green rice field and a peaceful breeze. I was thankful for the soothing view and symbol of newness, life, and hope.

Purse Snatchers

Typically when my mom and I go out we take the car. But for the sake of convenience we took my motorcycle on our mother-daughter date. 

The mid-afternoon drive home was quiet, our minds and stomachs were satisfied with good conversation and cupcakes, respectively. A few blocks from home my mom started to yell. I turned my head to see what she was yelling about and saw two young men driving extremely close to us. They were trying to grab my mom's purse. 

Before I could react, my motorcycle slipped from under me. It slid to the right as I skidded to the left on my palms. The two men sped off straight ahead. I looked back at my mom whom was lying on the concrete road moaning in agony. I jumped up and asked, "Are you ok???"
 

She nodded, still moaning with a bleeding face.

I ran and stood in the middle of the road and yelled as loud as I could at the backs of the two men as they disappeared into the distance. 

"ASSHOLES!
DAMN YOU!"

As soon as I heard myself I felt ashamed. I regretted cussing them out. Not because I didn't feel justified badmouthing the idiots who hurt my mother --I have never felt so validated to use those words in my life-- but because I saw them as they were: broken people. It hurt me to see people who valued things over people's lives.

My prayer is for healing. 

My wounds are healed. You can feel the soft new skin regrown on my left palm and see the scars on my hands and on my left knee. My mom's fractured pelvis is on the mend. Those two men? I don't know the state of their hearts but my hope is that in that split second when they looked back at my mom and me fallen and injured, they would feel ashamed. Maybe their consciences would revive their apathetic hearts and lead them to healing.

 

---

They didn't get my mom's purse. My mom has a fractured pelvis and had to stay bed ridden for a month and a half. She wasn't wearing a helmet so thankfully no head injury. My motorcycle, aside from a broken mirror, is fine.