My mother called me, two days after he died. The call came relatively late considering that he was my father and I was his only son. I supposed it could be explained by the fact that I was always out whenever my mother called. The US was fifteen hours behind Singaporean time.

    "So."

    "You have to come back, the funeral's next week," my mother was agitated.

    "I'll try to get a plane ticket ASAP," I told her. "I'll give you a call again."

So I grabbed some of my stuff, crammed everything into a bag and made arrangements for a flight back to Singapore. Jack and I had a conversation in the bedroom the night before I left.

    "So you'll be back?" he asked.

    " The funeral's next week. If I'm lucky, I'll be done with all the mourning shit in a week," I replied.

    "Make that a month," he said. "Funerals are trickily emotional affairs."

    "I searched for a cigarette. "Not that emotional. My mother never really cared. You know what, I never cared either." I finally managed to pull one out. Jack lit it. "But I think you're right. I'll probably be back for at least 3 weeks."

    So here I am. SIA homebound. Coming back to my homeland after 3 years of displacement in Cal doing PEIS and wandering around Europe and America. Singapore's prodigal son.