I was 3. A glimmering streak of light flashed across the ink-black horizon, leaving countless bursts of brilliance embellishing the darkened skyline. The fiery tendrils of fireworks blazing on the smoky canvas, mirroring the warmth sparks of a wood-burning stove on a Christmas night. The vibrant gleam waltzed with the twinkling stars, crafting an ethereal landscape. The vivid sparkling captured my gaze, enchanting me with its alluring grace. Each radiated its glow amidst the symphony of booms and bursts. No leaning, no jostling, no jumping up and down opposing how thousands were vying for a perfect view; just me perching atop my father’s shoulders and admiring the spectacular fireworks. My legs swayed instinctively to the harmony of the fireworks, dangling them with bliss and excitement. Carefree. 

“The fireworks look so beautiful, Papa!”

I was 8. I followed after my father’s silhouette, trailing up a low hill for the seventh time. The beads of sweat dripped down his face as we trailed. After a while, we reached the top of the hill and breathed heavily. The earthy fragrance of lush green grass filled the air as we plopped down on the vibrant green lawn. The golden sunbeam of an early Sunday morning was calming, bathing us in the soothing warmth. The winds whispered gently against our faces, delivering a tranquil breeze of fresh aroma from the surrounding wildflowers. We began tumbling down the hill; the blades of grass tickled our skin. Our eyes squinted intensively, leaving deep wrinkles that framed them. My hysterical laughter echoed the vibrant hues of the horizon with enthusiasm. Freedom. 

I was 13. Immersing myself in the upbeat tune and dazzling lights as my palms firmly gripped the steering wheels and leaned with the pods at every twisting corner. My bloodshot eyes were entranced with curiosity at the bending tracks on the screen. I pursed my lips tightly until I tasted the metallic tang from the oozing red fluid of the bruised lips. Despite my concerted effort, I came third. Grabbing the few last coins for my next attempt, I saw my phone had been ringing from missed calls. 

“Hello?” 

“Get home safe. It’s getting late. I made bún bò for dinner, your fav-”. The toll of the coins reverberated once more, dampening his voice. “Hello? Do you hear me?”

“Can you shut up? I'm trying to focus. You are so annoying.” I responded irritably, frantically jabbing the end call button, but it had not ended. The race started; his voice muffled through the phone’s speaker, swept away by the thumping beats. 

After a while, I came first in the race with a perfect five-star rating. I screamed enthusiastically, finally seizing my phone to go home. The satisfaction had my mind in its clutches, ignorant of the missed calls from my father. 

The door opened up to my father, alone in the dim room, staring at his daughter. I dared not to utter a word; he deigned not to respond. Those eyes had lost their sparks for me, I realized. Before the dams holding back my tears could crumble, he walked away without a rebuke. The soup on the table had gone cold, like my father’s disappointed gaze. 

Ever since we had barely talked, I was too embarrassed to admit my unacceptable behaviour and how I prioritise racing games over a family dinner. I attempted to ask for his forgiveness, but my chest was stepped on at every endeavor to utter the words. I clenched my jaw to dispel the welling tears from overflowing. I stammered, allowing the peacock to wrap its wicked wings around the weak-willed heart. My palms streamed in sweat and were tattooed with imprints of the fingernails from firmly clenching my hands. The most challenging words to say were indeed “I’m sorry”. 

I was 18. We bid ourselves a final farewell at the airport’s front gate before I left for my education abroad a week before New Year’s Eve. I celebrated the New Year countdown in a foreign land, walking on the street alone while seeing others surrounded by their loved ones. I was now one of the thousands vying for the perfect view of the fireworks: leaning, jostling, and jumping up and down. My legs stood on their soles, and my heart stood on its solitude. I rushed through the crowd to flee from the lonesome reality. No longer was I on the mountainous shoulders of the man who had held me with a secure embrace. Where had the carefree kid gone? When did the freedom I longed for taste so lonely? 

It suddenly struck me like a thunderbolt from the downpour, my realisation that I had officially left my family’s embrace from seeing them every day to being physically with them 21 days a year. Life is unpredictable. My life was turned over after just a week. Reminiscing the nostalgia, I deeply regret mistreating my father. The unspoken words “I’m sorry” could absolve me of all this on the tip of my tongue, yet held back by the chains of embarrassment and shame. I should have been more understanding of how he was striving to support me, I should have prioritised family time, and I should have been more empathetic. As time slowed to a crawl and the chains of hesitation were burned away by the heart’s beat, “I should have” was an afterthought as my hands reached for my family’s embrace. The past stays in the past, but the present is what drives the future. 

Although we can only communicate through screens, this is more significant than physically present but not appreciating their existence. I have learned to be grateful, apologize when appropriate, and cherish every reminiscence to the fullest, as everything could completely change in a split second. 

Growing up, my father’s absolution instilled in me gratitude and empathy. 

Beep beep “Hello Papa, have you seen the fireworks last night?”