Haven't written to you for five months. Hope you're well.
It's 0041 here in Hong Kong. The third day of the Chinese new year. The year of the dog.
Listening to Mr. Ray Cordeiro's show "All the Way with Ray" on Radio 4 on my walkman.
Dad's asleep in the bedroom. By the window Mom's still busy tending her pots of narcissus, one of the typical festive plants during Chinese new year along with tangerine, chrysanthemum, peony, and peach blossom.
Gave my sister a call earlier. Nobody answered. Left a message. Said I'm sorry for what happened earlier in the evening. It was about eleven. My parents and I were back from having a walk along the Shing Mun river. She's watching "Monk" on TV. I just sternly drove her out of the sofa, and, eventually, out of the house with her saying, "I'm not welcomed here." Pop scolded me for being such a child. "Indulgence," he said with a grim face, "will eventually cause you harm, not others."
Right.
I'm such a child.
Indulgence.
Yours sincerely,
B. H.
