The time was fragile, weak in heart, and strong in the mind. People scurried past the golden city of Queens New York where business men associated themselves with the thugs and the gangs. The year 1993 was the era of renewal, an era where people my age began to pop out of their mother's wombs, each with close related thoughts of what to name their child. The city of Queens was decaying, losing its colors and the vibrant life it could of conjured. But, within this turmoil, there lay a brightening hospital, where in moments past, the only Asian family in the maternity ward would be gifted with a male Asian boy.
A loud cry rang through the doctors' scrubs and the blood covered delivery bed. There, in the weakened mother's presence lay a healthy, very obese, chunky child. Time flew by quickly, as the mother was embraced by fellow mothers and soon to be mothers. The family flourished and nurtured the baby with all their care. The birth of such child was the most beautiful event that brought the family to be one, where people once thought, could never exist. I was not that child, well at least I don't think it is. I too was born at a Queens hospital, the only Asian family harbored there, but I don't remember such elaborate happiness once my birth came to be. The day was October 31, 1993, an early morning: very early, clear blue sky, sunlight barely escaping the tip of the planet.
I could of sworn a life time of joy, a period of gleeful life, or so I wished my baby self could remember, the time when people greeted one another in the streets and when people would care for their neighbors, like Canada. Anyways, this life story is not about my family, or my past life. It's about me and my present and future life.
...the time of my death.
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