When I think about my father, there are some memories that stand out. I often think of how he coughed in the morning with bulging neck veins and a face so red that I thought he would drop dead immediately. I also think back to the ice cream incident in which I hurled a spoonful of ice cream across the kitchen. It landed between the sink and stove. My father stretched out his face in his unique way of indicating amusement. He never scolded me or told my mother about it.

One memorable incident was learning the scientific name for star fruit, Averrhoa carambola. I saw him eating it and I asked him what it was. He didn't know the name in English and had to consult the dictionary. He only had one Chinese-English dictionary, which is the same one he had since before I was born. In that dictionary, the translation was the scientific name for star fruit instead of the common name. I had to do further research in the encyclopedia to find the common name.

This event may seem mundane, but it is a significant memory, because it is possibly the only conversation I ever had with my father in my entire life.

My father was always distant and uncommunicative. He had daily conversations with my mother and one of my sisters, but he mostly ignored the rest of us. When I was a young boy, I yearned for some sign of affection. The signs were there, but they were always implied and never overt. In the summer of 1982, I got as close as I ever would get to him.

It began with playing Chinese Checkers alone. I had played many other games alone that are typically played by two people. My father rarely took notice. Chinese Checkers seemed to get his attention. He watched my games intently and eventually offered to play against me. In his typical fashion, no full sentences were spoken. He simply sat down and said "hey" while gesturing with his face to indicate that he wanted to play.

My father had developed his own variation to the rules of the game. I had no idea that it wasn't the standard way to play. I did not discover this until years later, when I tried to play a computer version of the game. I'm still not sure if this innovation of his was the result of a passion for the game or simply a misunderstanding. I am also still not certain if he played the games with me because he loved the game or because he loved me.

We played every night after dinner without a single word being spoken. This came to an abrupt end when school resumed in September. My mother insisted that I study despite the lack of need on my part. I mostly just watched television after dinner. In mid-October, my father vanished.

He left without saying anything to anyone other than my mother. I did not know that he wouldn't be returning until 7pm. That was the usual time that my mother went out to escort him home. My grandmother yelled at my mother for being late. My mother said he wouldn't be coming back. That night, my grandmother stayed up sitting at the window cursing at him for leaving again. Prior to this, I had not known that he had other disappearances. My sisters informed me of several similar disappearances in the past. This was the first and only one since I was born.

He spent a year in Iowa. Every month, he sent a large box with trinkets that he acquired. It also included a letter to my mother. I still don't know the details of why he left or what he did while he was gone. I only know that he was in Iowa because I read the return address on the boxes that he sent. It is a taboo subject that has never been mentioned by any family member. My sister once scolded me for almost mentioning it when my grandmother asked about how old a specific radio was. I was going to say that it was purchased in 1982 and I knew because my father bought it while he was in Iowa. It was clear, from the trinkets that he acquired and the birthday presents that he sent, that he was earning significantly more money. That was probably the reason that he left, but it doesn't explain why he didn't tell us.

A year later, there was an unexpected knock on the door. We never have surprise guests and the whole family minus my father was already at home. My mother told me to open the door. I thought it was very odd, because she is usually extremely wary of strangers who knock on the door. Her usual routine involves turning off all the lights and quietly approaching the door to look through the peephole. This time, she just asked me to open the door without checking first to see if it was safe. When I opened the door, I did not recognize the man who was standing there. It was my father. He had lost around 70 pounds and his face looked significantly older. I stood there confused for a while. He walked in without saying anything and my mother said to me "that is your father". I eventually realized that he was indeed my father, but part of me never accepted that. Some part of me thought that my real father was gone forever. This is another man and I will never seek his affections. And I never did.

I have never mastered the art of playing with balloons. My earliest attempts at playing with them involved bouncing or squishing them. That always ended in an explosion. Along with that came the awful feeling of disappointment and the guilt of having destroyed a gift.

I recall my longest lasting balloon. It was one that I received at the dentist's office. I was cautious with that one. I only played with the electrostatic properties of the balloon and avoided exertion of pressure on it as much as possible. Three days later, my mother decided to throw it away because she assumed that I had lost interest in it.

I still don't understand why adults give balloons to children and I still don't know how to play with them. Maybe it's too simple for me to understand.

When I was young, I didn't know who she was. She visited several times a year and primarily had lengthy conversations with my grandmother. The fact that she was my grandmother's eldest sister was not a secret. In fact, she was referred to with the Chinese terminology which has that exact meaning, but familial relationships have a complex taxonomy in Chinese, and none of it made sense to me when I was a young boy.

She was just a stranger to me who never talked to me when she visited. I also didn't give her many opportunities. I tried to hide as much as possible from strangers who visited my home. Hiding was sometimes not permitted, but it was not a problem at all when my grandmother's sister visited. She was the matriarch of the clan and I would have been a distraction in serious adult conversation.

Whenever she visited, special rice bowls were used for our meals. These bowls were reserved exclusively for use when she visited. For this reason, I secretly called her "The Bowl Lady".

I did not discover how she was related to me until she died. My grandmother received the news over the phone. It was the only time I ever saw her cry. I knew about death already, but I had not yet learned the Chinese euphemisms for it. My sister explained to me what had happened and who it happened to. That was when I discovered that The Bowl Lady was my grandmother's sister.

I experience a weird sensation when I think about vinyl records. They remind me of an incident that happened over 20 years ago. My father gave me his old record player. He bought a new one for himself and had no need for the old one. It was not entirely unexpected that he would give it to me. He often gave away his old audio equipment when he acquired something new. I started playing with it right away. Although it had the form factor of a record player, it also had a radio and cassette player built into it. I was able to use those features, but I didn't have any vinyl records.

My father came back a few minutes later and gave me a Petula Clark record. This was unexpected. I thought the gifting process was already over. Also, I had no interest in Petula Clark's music, but I listened to the entire record once just to be sure. I somehow felt very bad about keeping that record. I'm still not entirely sure why. I could have just kept it in storage and never looked at it again, but it just didn't feel right. Maybe it's because I knew that it was music that he liked. It would have been wasted if it was kept in my possession. Returning it to him was very difficult. I also don't fully understand why. I forced myself to. He didn't react much, and I left the room quickly after telling him it's not my kind of music.

Upon further reflection, I can now see some of the underlying psychodynamics. He never talked to me and seldom showed interest in anything about me. The record symbolized a brief expression of his interest in me. He realized that I had no records to use on my record player, and he decided to give me what I believed to be one of his favorite albums. This was the attention that I both yearned for and hated, and I let the hate win. He never offered another record to me again.