Abducted for the Wake

So I was at home, weary, tired, and getting ready to sleep when my sister calls me to attend the wake.

The wake of my previous grandparents were all held at the same place, in the chapel of Santuario church in our village. Grandfather's wake was no different. In fact, it's really like deja vu.

Our pastor was there and it was him who held the services for the first night. During one of the previous funerals, I remember my brother mentioning that Chinese funerals were short. A few men just came in, recited some words, waved some paper with Chinese characters on them, then leaves. It doesn't take more than 10 minutes. Christian funerals, on the other hand, are long. There's usually singing, a moral for the day, and other rituals which should comfort the surviving relatives (there's comfort in following rituals after all).

Unfortunately, it's only during funerals that the English names of my grandparents are etched in my mind. For some reason, my grandmothers didn't have one. Maybe it's because the patriarchy still lingers. My father's father was Sam Yu. My mother's father was Tintin Tan.

Tintin Tan died yesterday, and it was only last Sunday that I last saw him. He was just as helpless in his bed, partially asleep, and when I greeted him, all he could do was grunt. A few months back he was rushed to the hospital. Apparently, he was rushed to the hospital last Monday for a sudden attack, and it was there that he died on Tuesday lunchtime.