When I was little, I used to grow mung beans in the garden. I harvested and had them cooked into my favorite soup. I did it just once because tending gardens was not really my forte. I was better at running over my flower bushes with the bicycle. However, the cooking never stopped in my uncle's little kitchen.
My Tito Boy is a simple person. He is like my favorite mung bean soup - simple but always gives that comfort. Even if there weren't too much in the cupboard, he always offered me a plate with white rice and asked me to fill it with whatever I liked . And I always felt comfortable at the bamboo dinner table. The kitchen feels like my own.
Whenever I spent time with Tito Boy, he always talked about how I once got mad at him after he refused me a ride on the ferris wheel when I was still a toddler. He said I stared at him the entire time and did not say a word. He also always commented about me looking like Chinese. His remarks were consistent. I liked that about him.
Last time I visited him, he gave everyone a good time like he always did. We laughed under the old rambutan tree where other stories were made. He and the guys had some of the old rum left from his opened bottle.
Yesterday felt uneasy and I had been craving for mung bean soup but not just any so I started writing about it. Early this morning I had dreamed of family and balls of dark chocolate ice cream on a sugar cone. Then because it was just a dream, my late Tita Rosie waved the ice cream as if in celebration and said that it has been 40 days. And it is.
Tito Boy, we miss you dearly. Even in a dream you are remembered. I saw your name on the beautiful stone last time we were home. There isn't much I could give you but I hope the flowers made you happy.