Abstract
In loving memory of my grandparents, Mr. & Mrs. Canagaratnam.
“Please put your mask on.”
If I do, I am afraid you will not really see me, and I will not see you too.
It's not that I am concerned you won't see my drying lips or that I won't understand you.
I've spent the last decade of my life becoming a lip reader of sorts with these failing ears.
No, it's not that.
You see, I want you to see me before I was feeble, old, and gray.
When I was the young chap who drank straight from coconuts back home in Ceylon and wooed the ladies as captain of our school's football team. My hair used to be jet black, you know.
When seeing my mother refuse to stop weeping at my father's funeral forced me to become a man for the first time.
When I met our village's most timid belle with the softest curls and rosiest cheeks. She would become my wife and the eternal love of my life.
When she gifted me my first child and showed me a type of love I never knew before.
When she and I traveled the world together and eventually found a home in Canada to enjoy the beautiful laughter of our children's children. It was then I learned nothing else would ever compare.
I am asking you to see me and hear me.
Please don't stand so far—six feet is too much.
The world is already a lonely place without her, why must we isolate more?
I am asking you to read the many chapters of my book before it is too late.
But if you insist, I will put my mask on.
I will keep this profound distance between you and me.