The irony behind the death of my grandfather was that I had never ever ever drove by myself to his house. I had always been the young daughter, sitting behind the driver seat. Alert and assertive whenever dad wanted to cut cars. I'd sit on the edge of my seat, my small face squashed between the door and my dad's head rest. I always feared that my dad would miss the ray of light coming from the oncoming car ahead.
I had always been the sister, the loyal company my brother kept on his long drive home. I was famous for sleeping in any moving vehicle. (I even fell asleep in a non-AC hot and sticky Asian environment taxi in a 15 minute drive from our hotel to gojo market in Myanmar) I new then, only what I saw.
When I reached KL from Kemaman, abg had left the car keys and I had to make my way to Encik's house alone. Simpang Ampat, direction to Alor Gajah and I smiled as I recognized all the landmarks and carefully wove my way through the winding road for fear of missing the secluded house.
The end of something is definitely the beginning of something else. Even in death, there should never be any regrets.
Thats how I always saw myself enter F's life anyways.
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