by Kimberly Ang
A friend’s graduation trip. Her facebook, her friend, her boyfriend, his facebook. That face looks rather familiar. Oh yes, he is from my Junior College. Photos, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, alright, now I see the familiar faces. One by one. Prom, the last and most prominent event of my JC life. I recognise the smiling faces from 3 years ago.
I recognised you.
I clicked on your profile, wondering what’s up. I see all the happy posts, birthday wishes, ORD wishes. But you’re not there anymore. Tagged in ORD countdowns and pink ICs, I see your army buddies sharing their joy with you. I see the progression from JC to army through the photos, how you’ve changed so much in your looks these few years. I probably wouldn’t have recognised you if I bumped into you along the roads. Literally. Where are you now?
We weren’t really close friends, not too unfamiliar for acquaintances. You were a bundle of laughter at morning assemblies, during biology lectures, always there by your friends, oh how your clique loved you so. I remember fondly squealing your name, as far as my squealing tendencies are concerned. Everything else just seems to dissolve together in a blur.
You look so strikingly like my cousin, something inside of me is gripped. I think of someone my age, at that moment only 20, and within a fraction of a second, oversight carelessly unrooted you from this earth. It was scary, it seemed so surreal at that moment, that even with the alarming number of accident reports of army boys dying while serving the nation, I never thought for a moment that I would recognise any of the names reported. This just makes me appreciate my boy and my other male friends for completing their NS even more.
Tonight, I cried for you, like I did 3 years ago. You had so many bigger things, you were going on to Law School, something you’ve worked so hard your 2 years for. I cried for the aspiration that died with you, I cried for the smile that would only be etched in timeless photos. I cried for the friends who miss you dearly, I cried for you family’s healing. But most of all, I cried knowing that in some way, you’ve fulfilled God’s purpose, and he has brought you home.
In memory of Eugin Wee