Sabby called and I congratulated her.
Eight years, she dedicated herself to her research. Eight years ago, the summer day we greeted each other on campus for the last time. She handed over a whole bunch of stuff that she thought I might need for my teaching. I asked her what made her so determined of going forward to pursuit her dream.
"Just a thought: if I don't do it now, I might not ever do it." She chuckled. "Besides, I wanted to experience what's different."
I can still smell the floral scent in her hair. We hugged, I insisted. But then she blushed and teased me for being so different a person, compared to other conventional figures and friends she had. I was unconventional. And I still am. I want to be different. And I need to stand strong for being me.
All along, she thought she was the same and she desired the same thing like most Taiwanese she identified with. Nonetheless, for me, she is just herself, the odd one yet so true and so genuine, to herself and to her friends. She granted me space to be different and respected my anomaly. Having a friend like her has always been a pleasure and a bliss.
As she got frustrated, she swallowed the bitterness alone. There her family helplessly stood, across the Pacific; here I desperately tried to pull myself together, at the other side of the phone line. We were bullied, we cried; we stumbled, we once hit the rock bottom.
She asked me whether I'd take the car and other stuff. There's a trace of sweet and sour bitterness in my hesitation. My eyes turned red. I remember how she encouraged me in many ways and how she inspired me as a young scholar, a tough fighter.
This will be her last time over and her first time over with her newly-rewarded doctorate. I know I will miss her. Perhaps I miss her already.