The one that got away…

12 02 2011

I once uncovered, in a beat-up briefcase that belonged to my father when he first came out to Hong Kong with his friend to make a name for himself, a small photo of him, mid-laugh, wearing his tennis clothes (when all I had known of him for as long as I could remember was his love for golfing). After some begging, I was able to keep it for myself, and I would put it into my back pocket to have it with me all the time. Then, one day, I reached into my pocket and discovered it gone.

The guilt and regret that consumed me then still echoes in my heart today, even as I’m writing this post. I am again astonished by my stupidity and lack of foresight: how could I not have known that it would be lost? Why didn’t I keep it more safely? In my wallet, for example? What an idiot.

I have photos of my father, yes, but they’re not the tennis one. They’re not the small one from the attic. They’re not the begged-for one. And they are most certainly not the mid-laugh one. This is the one thing I will always regret losing, beyond anything else I have ever loved, and lost. This will be the worst ever.

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