One of my earliest memories if my dad calling me mei-mei baby (little sister) as I would giggle with glee. I remember him tossing a blanket over my brother and me as we wriggled away in a game of "goo-la-lee." (It wasn't until my teens that I realized goo-la-lee was a made-up word, not Chinese.) In high school, Babi—our pet name from baba—would wake up at 4:30 AM to drive me to swim practice, then stay up to help me with my calculus and physics homework. In his later years, after a string of heart attacks and strokes left him fragile, small, and egg-like, he would smile broadly and wave his hand like the Dalai Lama to waiters and Harris Teeter check-out ladies, who would then crumple at his cuteness. He also grew sentimental in his golden years, often telling me how proud he was of me and that he had created a good life in America. I can still feel the pat of his brown-spotted hand over mine and picture his wrinkly-eyed smile. It's been one year since my sweet Babi passed away, and I miss him more than ever. <3
P.S. This weekend, Tim flew home to see my mom, and they went to go see dad and put fresh flowers on his grave. Isn't my family the greatest?
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