//A Letter for Ah Kong

This is how I will remember Kong Kong. 

He has a low and guttral viking grunt. With this, he spoke with the calculated eloquence of thunder washing over an imprecise horizon. Some nights though, his fingers danced light as ballerinas over a large black piano. And I think he used this to speak another gentler language. Back to the piano, he played with an odd set of thumbs: fat, flat and squashed and liked to croon "Danny Boy". I suspect he liked Andy Williams. And sometimes on some nights, Oma, would sing along, whiskey glass in hand. 

Oma, my heart is with you. 

Kong Kong lived a soldiers regime. He was very strict and severe: on everyone, himself included. But he also had a mischievous child's curiosity for adventure. I think some of this came from a deeper defiance: to prove that whatever we think life should or should not be, it could and would be. If only we dared. 

Kong Kong, cheers to you. 

On my wall in my room is a picture of you in a white singlet, sun-kissed and grinning with sweat on your forehead. You're raising a black glass of tarry Guiness. Oma, you are on the wall too, next to him, with a pot of delicious in your hand at the large round table where we shared all our meals. This is a standing definition of my childhood, a gift I will to pass on to my own family and them to theirs.

"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling." 

Kongkong, this is how you are remembered: a viking's ballerina, an artisanal lawyer and a soldiered child. An artist who chiseled life from the hard rock of living. Thank you Kongkong for having the audacity to be who you want to be. 

I love you and I miss you dearly.

Your grandson,

Lennard.