When his sister discovers an old letter from their late father, Richard Chow has the opportunity to learn more about him.
I have no recollection of my father. Instead, he exists only in an abstract narrative cobbled together from stories shared by others. He had emigrated alone from China to the U.S., and later became a doctor, husband, and father of five children. What emerges from the stories is a person who embraced joy, adventure, and intellectual challenges.
I was only five, when my father died, now 60 years ago. My desire to learn more about him has dissipated over the years. His narrative remains only an inadequate outline of his brief life, one that lacks meaningful emotional content. This has created a stream of melancholy that flows through my own narrative.
Last month, my sister discovered a picture of our parents as a young couple. Somehow, this prompted my mother, now 92, to mention that my father had written a final letter.
My siblings and I were dumbfounded. The letter is handwritten in English, not Chinese, his native language. He begins with administrative matters, including his own funeral arrangements.