Glorious Sunset: Part 5, to shoreline

Squeezed between the ultra-liberal politics and world-renowned academics driven Berkeley and the rough-and-tumble blue-collar industrial Oakland in the East Bay is the city of Emeryville, a small enclave of middle-upper class residential high-rises and yuppie upscale restaurants. Unabashedly staring at the city of San Francisco in its full glory from a sea-level ventage point, Martha and I have long ago found the shoreline of Emeryville a hidden gem for a reflective evening stroll after a subdued dinner for two. Driving alone from Ben's firm in San Francisco downtown over the worn and colorless Bay bridge, overlooking the infamous island prison Alcatraz, trespassing the historic Treasure Island on the way, places filled with long dormant memories flash by on my side like soulless black birds flying mindlessly to pre-destined, unescapable ends. Today's unsually strong melancholy has prompted me to our place of soul asylum, hoping it will rekindle a moment of serenity and peace. Times like this I admit guiltily that I miss my Martha very much.

The sun is setting as I park my car by the famed Chinese restaurant that has fortuitously found a home on rocky shores of west Emeryville. As I step out of the car, a cold wind welcomes me to the beaten narrow path by the shore lying and waiting in front of me, one that Martha and I have set foot together hand-in-hand hundreds of times. Like a passer-by searching for a lost gold coin he carelessly dropped, I pace the path cautiously, looking half-heartedly everywhere for something dear I cannot be sure. The sound of my shoes crunching meekly the sand below synchronizes with the perpetual and ceaseless waves; the retiring sun somehow inexplicably casts me two shadows -- one full-bodied and distinct, another elongated and faded. Suddenly, among the fast diminishing rays of a setting sun, images of our youthful past -- snuggling closely for warmth on the stone bench on the right, laughing to tears over a silly pun by the water fountain on the left, conversing giddly in excitement on the pending birth of our child -- appear sporatically like ghosts in front of my eyes. My walk has become a recounting of our short but cherished happenings in rapid and uncontrollable sequences. I watch these soundless wonderful illusions with a tender and broken heart, in awe and in infinite affection. Then my flashback comes to a poignant crescendo. Martha died in a car accident on her daily walk home from buying groceries for our evening supper. A drunk driver took her life and his own in a matter of seconds. If I had only taken Ben and her out for dinner that evening; if we had visited Mable; if I had only returned home early, caressed her, held her, kissed her... I once again torment myself with accusing questions I have tormented myself over and again the past nine years. However calmly and logically one can reason away guilt, I simply could not find the strength to speak to Ben about his mother's death because deep inside, I ultimately have succumbed to the weight of the consequence of my inability to protect my beloved wife. Martha is gone, and daily I pay for the sin from which I can never recover. I stop and stare blankly upwards as the darkening sky starts to fill itself with twinkling stars; the air is cool, crisp and light to the exposed skin. I long to be closer to her; I am ready to go whereever she is now.

I startle when my phone suddenly rings. I hurrily fumble the seldomly used phone out of my pocket and hear a familiar voice, "Dad, are you okay? I went to the cafe and they said you have long left." Ben has caught up to me. "Sorry, Ben ... just thinking about things today ... just thinking, I mean," I search for words clumsily as I struggle to regain my senses. A long silence ensues. How can I tell my son after all these years, after he has grown and matured into a man -- a well-educated, industrious professional in a modern world not my own, that as a father I have long ago failed him miserably, that I am sorry for not protecting his mother and save him from his deep sorrow?

Perhaps God was listening sympathetically from the stars; maybe Martha has whispered softly in the cold breeze; somehow the awkwardness has transmitted my pathos over the air. Ben finally speaks, "It's mom's birthday next Thursday, right? Why don't you come over for dinner? We can celebrate her life then ... you know, just talk about her." I stand motionless staring at the disappearing scarlet horizon; by grace, the black, heavy anvil I have endured for years is gently being lifted away from my aching back. It seems eternity has passed before I can utter a response, "I would like that, Ben ... thank you. See you next Thursday." I hang up the phone in darkness; the night stars barely illuminate my surrounding enough that I can discern my wrinkled hands clinching tightly to the phone. The sun has retired from another day of honest work and receives its rest for the following day. Perhaps after years of mourning, we can finally be a family of three again.

Glorious Sunset: Part 4, to office

Ben does not talk much. When he was a child, on sunny Saturday afternoons when neighborhood kids were out in the graffiti-smeared playground chasing strayed cats on fences and hitting teeballs with wooden sticks, he would dress himself in a white checkered shirt and a grey sweater, and follow Martha docilely to museums. Staring blankly at giant paintings that dwarfed his skinny frame, he squeezed his mother's hand tightly as if to secure his place in the crowded gallery, and pushed his spectacles up his nose to ensure he did not miss a single detail. Returning home when the sun set, while Martha prepared our Saturday special mu-shu pork and chicken soup in the kitchen, Ben sat silently at the dinner table with a set of well chewed color pencils and a large white sheet of paper, and tried to recreate the vision he captured meticulously during the outing. Martha slipped unintrusively to his side, witnessed his progression with an intrigued smile, and gently stroked his jet-black hair in slow palsating rhythm. His works of art, simple, innocent and abstract all at the same time, filled up the entire kitchen door, until new ones replaced them a few months later.

Situated in Embarcadero, the architectural firm that hired Ben two years ago is one of three biggest in San Francisco. At the entrance sit two blond-hair receptionists in grey suits who instantaneously notice my arrival the moment I exit the elevator. "May I ... speak with Benjamin Li please?" I ask meekly. "Certainly. Which time slot is your arranged appointment?" The younger one on the right replies in a well practiced rhythm. Sensing a split second of indecision, the older one rescues me in a reassuring tone, "I will notify him right away, sir. Please wait a minute," sending a glance of admonition to the other. In a minute, Ben appears from the buzzing corridors in a navy blue blazer and blue jeans sans necktie. "Dad, is everything okay?" Ben inquires with sincere concern. Standing tall and muscular, Ben towers over me; my aged and weathered frame is a dwindling shadow to his formidable presence. "Nothing is the matter. I just had dim sum with Auntie Mable." Ben narrows his eyes; Mable's far-reaching manipulation is notorious. "You are busy... I will drop by another time." I begin to take my leave. "No please, I am finishing a meeting, why don't you wait at my cube?" Without waiting for a response, he leads me by the arm to a larger-than-average unit in the middle of the cubicle fortress. As he disppears into a conference room, I lower myself to a guest chair nudged between his large beige office desk and a pot of oversized synthetic evergreen. Secretaries, draftmen, architects and managers continue to stream pass the hallway in fast and purposeful motion. Feeling slightly out-of-place, I survey my surrounding in slow and deliberate movements. Besides the office desk that sits in the middle, a tilted drafting table hides further in the back corner. The charcoal cubicle walls are pinned full of roughly scribbled reminders in pastel colors. On the desktop are mountains of official documents, architectural drawings and a cantankeriously humming computer. At the corner of his desk, half covered by his black overcoat, sits a small, old photo of Martha in a dark wooden frame. I suppose she still smiles at him when he draws.

Ben returns a little more than ten minutes later. "I am sorry, the meeting is extended another 30 minutes. Why don't you wait at the coffee shop at the street corner? It's warm and quiet, and Chai tea is great there. Nancy will guide you." Not wanting to cause any more disturbance, I retreat subserviently from the premise with the older receptionist Nancy. Along the way, Nancy tells how diligent and valuable Ben has been to the firm, having just completed a large IT facility project in San Jose. "The firm will take care of the bill. Please make yourself at home," She smiles warmly when we reach the posh cafe, nods and returns to the office.

The sun is beginning to set, laying a long shadow from the door on the Persian carpet that hugs the sandy parquet floor. The sound of coffee cups lightly clanging against each other can be heard with a steady flow of running water as they are carefully handwashed. Next to traces of bagel crumbs deserted by earlier patrons, I sip a warm cup of tea alone on a corner stool; businessmen are still hard at work while housewives have long returned home from shopping to prepare evening dinners. Big yellow taxis, carrying homeward-bound mothers and school children in uniforms, pass by in synchrony with the periodic color changes of the street traffic signals.
Since when has Ben grown from an introverted boy to a factory-made white collar contributor to great American enterprises? It is as if all these years of family life, even the years while Martha was still alive, had been compressed into a single hour of movie clip, and flashed before ones' eyes without a chance for cherished rememberance. Ben grew even quieter after Martha's passing, focused on his schoolwork and his drawings. He always excelled, never complained, and never voiced an objective of any kind. As a single father, I could not possibly ask for a more obedient son, yet in a singular momentary lapse, he has become a faceless stranger, one who exists in a foreign dimension than my own. I reconsider my hidden fear that I am now unable to surpress: Do my failure to protect Martha and subsequent silence mean an eventual loss of my own son as well?

I leave before Ben's arrival.

Glorious Sunset: Part 3, to dim sum

I have never particularly liked dining in old Chinatown in San Francisco; if I want to enjoy a sumptuous, authetic Chinese meal, besides the new wave of countless neo-Asian hideaways run by young and ambitious entrepreneurs in the heart of the city (I wonder if Ben is an occasion patron), there are a handful of mom-and-pop establishments in the South Bay, whose familiar faces and congenial conversations more than make up for the gaudy red draperies and smoke-stained yellow walls. I don't know what it is really, but perhaps it is the old retired coolies wearing skinny and weather-hardened faces, strolling the narrow cobbled streets endlessly on bended backs, that remind me too much of the hardship of the first Chinese pioneers paving the way before me: laying down wood planks for the trans-American railroad, sieving for gold dust in collapsible mines, handwashing mountains of laundry with bleached hands. But Mable has again insisted on Ming's, so here I am sitting opposite Martha's sententious older sister on our regular table in the fish tank corner for early dim sum on a breezy Friday morning.

"How are your kids... Jasmine and Jasabelle?" Very proud that I can finally manage to spit out her daughters' names without stuttering in embarrassment after all these years. I know one is a tea name and the other rhymes with the first. "Aiyah, Bo, they don't like to be called kids anymore. they are in college already. 'Young adults' they call themselves nowadays," both of Mable's daughters are attending University of California, Berkeley across the bay. I don't think I have seen them in over a year. As Mable continues her oration on the lives of young ones -- her favorite subject -- about their unfathomably hectic schoolwork, their recent fashion purchases, their active social lives, my eyes unconciously drift to the nondescript metal carts steadily passing by in the aisles. Stacked with round bamboo containers of steaming hot shrimp dumplings, chicken feet and cha-siu-bao, pushing these carts are often plump middle-aged Chinese women with no makeup and ivory white bracelets that they have worn since they were children, a symbol of devotion more to Chinese traditions than to the Bhuddist temples from which they were purchased. Many of them speak little English, never have married and will spend the majority of their lives rising and sinking in the echelons of microcosmic Chinatown. Behind the emotionless facets, what kind of lives are lived daily away from the Chinese restaurant running precisely and mechanically like clockwork? What dreams and hopes can be held in the land of opportunities when so few can be seen in this segregated enclave? Like Martha, do they steal time one day of the month, walk the sandy shores alone to the sound of gently beating waves, stare at the radiant setting sun, wine red like a blooming rose and glorious like a gigantic sunflower, and ponder about life's mysterious creator?

"Are you listening, Bo? Where are you looking at?" As Mable wakes me from my procrastination, I sip the chrysanthemum tea in earnest -- it is so hot it burns my tongue. Like Martha, Mable often reads my mind, "Martha has been gone for nine years, Bo ... it is not easy for me either," Her eyes begin to water. Needless to say that she loves her sister as much as I do. Physically, Mable and Martha bear little resemblence; Mable is a tea cup shorter but sturdily built, and has grown even sturdier over the years. Sporting a traditional perm and a neatly pressed China dress, she laughs loudly, cries bravely, and loves passionately each and everyone within ten feet of her existence. She is Picasso to Martha's Bonnard. Obviously my pedantic and subdued demeanor does not fall in her region of interest. But Chinese are a strange bunch that adheres faithfully (dogmatically) to social conventions, so as Martha loved me, Mable loves me also. For her persistent meddlings, I am forever grateful.

"Now that you are retired what are you doing to yourself?" After a couple of serving of fresh egg tarts, she has regained her composure and inquires with her exploring eyes. I utter the standard reponse: gardening, walking the parks, enjoying life in general. "I worry about you. Maybe having too much free time is not good for you." Lowering my head, I sit squarely on my seat. "Why don't you go see Ben, huh? He would be glad to see you." Truth be told that Ben and I have been distant. Martha was the glue that binded us, and since her death, the sudden emptiness, which was first overwhelming, was subsequently replaced by walls of unspeakable silence. Sure, we share the loss of a loved one, but we mourn differently, and perhaps our differences have driven us apart slowly over time.

I decide to visit Ben's office after lunch.

Glorious Sunset: Part 2, to museum

The newly renovated de Young Museum reopened in the Golden Gate Park last October and has been crowded daily with art lovers young and old ever since. Martha, a passionate and astute connisseur of classical and contemporary paintings, would have undoubtedly frequented the smartly designed monument with distictly modern architecture in lush surrounding, especially given we lived a stone's throw away in the perennially fog-covered Sunset district. That the sun actually can never be found in the aptly named struggling Asian community is a stroke of genius by the city planners; the title alone drew boatloads of ignorant and barely literate immigants, including a naive Taiwan-educated engineer arriving in the Golden State with a single plaid necktie and two suitcases full of American dreams. Not that I resent the manipulation, it is here where I met and fell in love with a shy and beautiful seamtress named Martha, married and lived our young lives till she passed away.

On a crisp and fresh Spring Tuesday morning, I stealthly purchase a senior ticket and slip silently inside the museum and merge into the contiguous streams of visitors, hoping that an unnoticed appearance would perhaps hide my shameful ignorance in the greater field of fine arts. Okay, it is true that I had often accompanied Martha to San Francisco Museum of Modern Art and other venues for special exhbitions, but my motivation was clearly not art itself, but the precious opporunities to walk hand-in-hand with Martha, to talk about the prices of vegetables at Huang's Market and the new movies at Ling's Theatre, and most of all, to look at Martha looking at the paintings. In front of a Bonnard or a Matisse, her eyes would fix their attention on the eclectic collection of manicured objects, a moment of tranquility would materialize magically between her and the picture, before a smile of admiration finally broke across her delighted and satisfied face. As a firsthand witness, I can testify that though personally dumbfounded by the seemingly childlike pile of dry paint on canvas, I swear that there must be absolute beauty in this fallen and unfortunate world, if my simple but loving and kindhearted woman can be moved to ecstasy in the presence of a mere painted thing. It is for this reason that I come today: to recapture a trace of ephemeral and undescribable perfection once descended upon us in distant memory -- to find a glimpse of Martha among the speechless rows of drawn figures, fruits and landscapes.

Standing in front of a formidable painting of two opulent peansant women sitting in quiet solemn conversation, I think hard about the true meaning intended by the great artist Rivera. Is it a poignant social commentary on the destituteness of rural Mexican farmers in the economically strapped southern state forgotten by the bourgeoisie, or a caricature on the emptiness and absurd of broader life, a slient echo to Munch's Scream? As I ponder the possibilities, a well groomed, petite Chinese gentle lady in her late fifties approaches me and whispers, "Perhaps Chinese can also find resonance in the hardship of peasant labor portrayed here." Slightly fluttered, I consent in politeness. If Martha were still alive, she would be around the same age. A wave of uneasiness washes over me, and I excuse myself and retreat from the meseum. I would have to find Martha another day.

Glorious Sunset: Part 1, to church

On Sunday morning, I put on the best suit I have and drive to the Asian American evengelical church just 5 minutes from home. The best suit I have turns out to be a double-breasted navy blue suit -- I think I bought that knockout with Martha in San Francisco before her sister Mable's wedding -- was that really 20 years ago already? -- which has since faded unceremoniously on the left shoulder from years of lying dormant in the furthest back of the bedroom closet. No worries; it is yet another brilliant sunny day in the South Bay, and so who can notice color disfiguration in blinding lights? If Martha were alive, she would have crossed her arms, leaned lightly on the white kitchen door densely posted with our son Ben's drawings, and smiled affectionately, astonished to picture me in something other than the grey trousers and white, short-sleeved botton-down that I wore daily to the office for 30 years. When I was devoting myself faithfully to work, I would retell the amusing anecdote of how Einstein had eleven identical dark grey suits in his closet so he could think devoutly only of research problems. Now that I am retired, I suppose I can afford a bit more leisure time pondering more deeply which attire is indeed more appropriate on different occasions, though at age 61, perhaps it does not make much difference aesthetically afterall.

The church is of a comtemporary genre, which is to say the music is progressive and often rowdy enough that it hurts my ears, and the young 2nd generation Korean pastor in his early 30's entertains gregariously with more jokes than Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Nevertheless, I find the atmosphere more pleasing than the Catholic convent alternative still further down the road -- why do old ladies whimper like young pups during every children's choir performance? -- where the light is too dim, the preaching is too unfathomable, and the air is stuffy and smelt of used, damped tissue paper. And so I march boldly into the youthful surrounding and situate myself in the rear with a sample of other elderly gentle Chinese folks, who also sit distant from the thunders of the charismatic praise band. During the sermon, I think of Martha again, of how she used to attend church fervently, sometimes dragging our taciturn son Ben with her, and often displaying intense emotions she would hide away secretly and deftly at home. I know because on special holidays like Christmas and Easter, I would forsake my Sunday morning tai-chi sessions and join the family in the crowded sanctuary, packed with infrequently visiting dads like myself, sitting awkwardly and uncomfortably in unfamiliar turf. Truth be told that I always had trouble staying awake, as I do now, but for some inexplicable reason, I was always able to wake just in time to catch with my handerchief fortuitously the first tear sliding down Martha's cheek, like the morning dew falling from a harvest-ready grapevine branch on a frosty morning. She would smile, and I would smile back, and I would think the world was beautiful and I was awfully glad I came. Of course, the next Sunday I would return to my beloved tai-chi comrades in the park.

The uproar of the praise band again wakes me, signaling the end of yet another stupendous sermon through which I could not stay awake. (If I sleep better at church than on my own bed, does that mean I feel more peace in the prsence of God?) As I exit the aisle, a muscular young man, running towards a converging crowd by the pulpit, bumps me carelessly, and I trip and tumble roughly back on the pew. "Oh, sorry!" He turns without looking and continues his sprint. "Gosh, Dr. Li, are you alright?" Lucy, the paster's newly wedded Caucasian wife from Texas, rushes to help me up as dark clouds start to materialize on her pretty young face, staring ominously at the boisterous group. "No worries! Kids sure are eager to serve the Lord these days," I force a smile despite the sharp pain on my right forearm. It will be two weeks before the sickly purple bruise goes away.