It is like the establishing shot of a film’s opening scene: A gray silhouette of mountains in the background and on the front-right, a small bright kampung house with two tall coconut trees behind it give the painting regional context. Next to the house, in the center of the painting is a stream that runs into a small waterfall. I can hear the water moving over the rocks and stones. On the far right side of the painting, there is a red flowering tree and on the opposite side, its leafy green companion. The sky is light orange – sunrise or sunset? It’s lush, with contrasting and saturated hues of green, blue, deep reds and yellows, with flecks of white.
I found this painting in my father’s house in Malaysia, behind a stack of papers and empty decorative boxes piled next to a tall glass cabinet. It was covered with a thick layer of dust, and parts of the ornate wood frame was cracked. But there it was. This painting hung in every house I remember living in when I was growing up. It made my heart light and happy. It is beautiful.
Each time I return to this house, I search for evidence from my childhood. I never lived in this huge house that sits next to the 17th hole of a PGA golf course. It has a large wooden front door, marble floors, and heavy brocade draperies on the windows. There are seven spacious bedrooms, three studies, a separate living space for the maids, five living rooms, three kitchens, and more.
There are old large framed family photos on the walls and arranged on cabinets throughout the house. All of these are eclipsed by many more framed images of my father’s former military status, group photos with important or famous people, and many large grandiose photos and paintings of him in uniform and displays of stiff, formal traditional attire.
After my mother died, my search for childhood memories have become more intentional. I open cabinets, drawers, doors, and closets. I look behind sofas, under coffee tables, and venture into any unlocked bedroom and storage room. It’s always the same. In every space I find mementos of my father’s military service, binders with old documents, expired jars of marmalade, packets of stale food, broken hair dryers, old clothes, scrunched up plastic bags, decades-old receipts, old newspapers, dusty suitcases, golf bags, old mattresses, and many empty boxes.
When I look back to my childhood, it’s odd to find so much clutter in my father’s house. We moved frequently as military families do, and every house we lived in had different furniture, curtains, carpets. Not many things followed us from house to house. As he rose in rank and status, the houses got bigger, and the furnishings more lavish. When he retired from the military, he built a mansion, and moved in with my mother more than 25 years ago. Today, he lives there alone, unwilling to part with anything.
After my mother died, my two brothers kept their distance and my father expected us to prioritize his grief over ours. I tried to close the gap with my brothers but failed, I was on my own. Grief is revealing. My brothers have never been emotionally available. My father’s loneliness magnified his self-importance, using his wealth to show power, control, and in his mind, to guarantee love and companionship.
I have quietly defied this part of him for decades, and when he sees through me, I face silent petulance. The physical distance between us since I was 19 masks this tension and side steps conflict. But the pain from my mother’s death revealed my deep frustration and anger. For my father’s selfishness and not ever having the family I needed.
Then I found the painting. I wanted to bring it home with me, to remember the warmth and happiness of my childhood ignorance. So I broke my own rules.
Over breakfast on the patio the next morning, I showed my father deference, chose my words very carefully, I showed him my heart, and I asked.
“Ayah, it would make me very happy, if I could have this painting.”
He looked at me and shook his head.
“No. It’s special. This Indonesian general gave it to me. You cannot have it.”
Finally, he found a way to have the upper hand. He hurt me, made me very angry and very sad. But I didn’t say more. I closed my heart, and remained silent.
This dusty painting. Forgotten and hidden for years behind boxes, not important enough to be admired on the walls. Musty, dirty, cracked and faded. A genuine, heartful, meaningful gift that could connect me to him, my mother, and my childhood. Not tied to his money or expensive tokens.
No, he declared.
I will stop searching, this is all the evidence I need.
ZRunTri 