for every Christmas, you were my Santa;
you whose verb was the backbone of my clause.
from the crescendo of your resonating recitations of my eulogy,
to the crispness of your spicy róbó* balls
and the tantalising aroma of your sumptuous bean cakes,
i still live in the placid imagery of those moonlit folktales.
that day, i wanted to be a man;
arm myself with ammunitions of your spurring words,
and wear myself thick vests of maturity.
but would they even fit my petite figure?
clueless as i was, you took me on a tour
to the ocean of mortality, and left me there at the shore.
now all that’s left for me to nurture
is the green memories of your serene nature.
perhaps, one day, they’d grow into a garden of feathers
and send you liquid letters drenched in the ink of my tears.
*róbó- melon cake.