It's an odd melancholy feeling, reminiscing about how carefree life was as a child when my biggest problems weren't really problems at all. Scrolling through all these old posts, I'm reminded of something that I think I have been suppressing for the longest time. 

I started off this blog with my first post about my father's brother, my uncle whom I affectionately called Fufa. I remember him always calling me such a smart young girl, but then again what talkative 10-year-old was not called 'smart' at their age. And at that age, I really did enjoy his company. He was a university student at IIUM Gombak, and in his free time he'd bring me to book fairs and bookstores and all sorts of places, he'd teach me so much about Islam and the world, and how to speak Arabic and I guess being a lonely eldest child, he was, at the time, about the closest thing I could regard to as a big brother. 

There are gaps in my memory but before I left for boarding school in 2011, he got married, to a really nice person whom I loved as well  ( i called her aunty Mawar). The memory of them, as newlyweds, taking me with them back to Terengganu for Aidilfitri, walking through that huge mydin mall and aunty mawar getting me that oh so pretty white hijab (which was way too big for me anyway) and making cookies that night is so fresh in my mind. That was so many years ago.

Looking back I regret that I did not spend that much time/ or communicate with them after they left for Pakistan for work. I imagine I would've been someone slightly different than who I am today should I have. 

In March of 2011, my Fufa died. I was thirteen, stuck in god knows where in Pekan, Pahang and my parents suddenly showed up and told me that my beloved uncle died in a freak car accident involving a horse. 

I think, after that day, I cried a total of three times. Only three, because pain and heartbreak were not feelings I knew how to deal with. Yet today, almost ten years later, I'm here sitting in the apartment I rent on my own, bawling my eyes out, remembering the time I was making cookies with my aunty Mawar, while my Fufa did work (i think). I remember the apartment, about how new and shiny it looked. I remember that they forgot to buy sugar before getting home, and they had a tiny argument about it before aunty mawar said its okay.

In the present day, I wonder if my uncle would be disappointed in what I've become? I feel like I've strayed so far from the path and ideals that were laid for me. But despite that, I think I've managed to at least make myself proud of the woman I've become. A kind person, at least, who strives to help whoever she can. 

I suppose at this point in my ramblings, I've forgotten my true intentions in writing this post. I wonder what my uncle would be like as a 40/50 yr old something with two lil kids running around, mayhaps I could have been what he was to me to his children. But things happen, and family politics are just... difficult to deal with. 

.......