As the red wine takes over my father’s tales, I am once again grateful of this family 

I see every youthful spirit run through his veins, steers his lips towards a distant memory of invigoration and whim 

I see his heart find the floor of his past, running along the same sun-cracked tiles of the compound, face bright and feet blackened with grime 

I do not know the names of the same old faces he describes, but the light of his smile brings them to this table 

Together, our necks sunburnt from the Manila eye, slick with sweat from the July heat, surrounded by Christmas lights and Chardonnay  

My father is beautiful 

There are so many words but none more true than beautiful  

As my sister and I are brought closer to ourselves, back to every little thing on this side of Heaven 

At the best of our years and only getting better, soaking in this afterglow of love and timeless tradition 

In this past reality of stories, etched into an outline of nostalgia on his face that resembles my reflection 

We are family and my father is beautiful  

There are so many words but my father is beautiful 

By: Serena Habib, Contributor

Butter slathered on toast during mornings with grandpa,

Soccer games followed by cotton candy ice cream,

Pilsbury croissant scented moments with grandma,

Family Second Cup runs for hot chocolate with whipped cream.

Sleepovers with strawberries wrapped in homemade crepes,

Love in grandma’s curries, which made them preeminent,

Candid photos from feeding each other birthday cake,

Little did she know that a maelstrom was imminent.

Love stopped. Love shuddered. Love got lost in the rain.

Food led to fights over mealtime. Love was enveloped in pain.

Mentally preparing herself for Christmas baking,

Running the chocolate chip calories away,

Laughing at dinner while silently aching.

Food-flavoured love was simply not okay.

She watched the boy she loved post pictures with his loved one

Sharing desserts and dinners she would never be able to eat,

She wanted so desperately to be lovable,

But love drifted away, perpetually out of reach.

She had lost love: she did not deserve it.

She would only have the muffin when she aced her test,

A test with a framework built upon inadequacy,

Years of high standards, and pressure to be the best.

It was love in her aunt’s heart when she tried to feed her oil,

Though she really needed buckets of self-acceptance instead,

From her father’s love formed a focus on body image:

A love that filled family vacations with dread.

Her mother’s love induced carbohydrated commands,

Threats that saved her from withering away,

With loathing she ate her way back to rationality —

This led to a love that would never go astray.

Pancakes with peanut-butter mornings of hope,

Cotton candy ice cream to celebrate her nineteenth,

Love for herself, her family, her journey —

Though her journey might never be truly complete.

For sometimes she feels herself slipping through her fingers,

She sees her reflection and bursts into tears,

But then she grabs some hot cocoa and her purple pen,

Reminding herself to push through her fears.

And sometimes she can’t, and her family is hurt,

As if she doesn’t love them by not trying the homemade cake,

Or they commend her on her weight gain at Christmas dinner,

And a mended part of her begins to break.

But love is eternal; it’s patient and enduring.

With each winter, it reveals itself more.

Meals filled with laughter and fond reminiscing

Are love’s subtle ways of winning her war.

By: Ronald Leung

 

To have 20 valentines: oh how I miss those days,
Draped in a childhood haze.
Dodge ball in grade three,
Getting my elementary school degree.

Feburary 14th: the day would roll around,
Which cards would I get? Thinking in a frown.
Scooby Doo?
Pokémon?
Hello Kitty?
Carrying my own cards, school-bound.

The time would come,
All my friends to be my valentine!
Handing out my precious cards,
No one will ever be glum.

How strange it is then,
And how strange it is now,
To go from multi-valentine fun,
To only wanting one.