Attempting to write a book at 90 years of age seems so, so futile. But the insistence of my daughter urging me to do it cannot be ignored. So, as long as there is still time and energy to do it, I have to give it a try.

I have to depend on fragmentary flashbacks of past events. They do not come in orderly and continuous sequences to be easily written without breakdowns. As with everyone, certain parts of our lives are private that we simply are really reluctant to share with anyone.

Due to the long, long lapse of time, it was difficult and slow to recall all the memories of the past. Sometimes, fragments of memories about events in Hong Kong, sometimes, Malaysia or Shanghai suddenly crop up together at the same time like the reflections of continually-changing forms in a kaleidoscope. It is like going back in time as in the movies. Never had I ever expected to live beyond seventy-five years of age. Indeed, I had given myself a life expectation of about sixty years. Such reasoning was based on the fact that I had to cope with a series of ailments, some minor and some serious throughout my life. To my own surprise, I celebrated my 90th birthday both in Denver and in Las Vegas. The celebrations were costly to my family, and I am exceedingly grateful that they thought me worthy of their generous gestures.

Though my life has never been a bed of roses all the way, I would not be too wrong to say it has been a long rich life, so far. Indeed, my life is a tapestry of innocence, sweetness, bitterness, heartbreaks, despair, regrets, fear, weakness, guilt, courage, and all other human emotions that fate continues to spin around me.