The man named Tom from Missouri

My aunt, my Mother’s sister, used to be a professional model. Men (and women) swamped around her like bees to a honeypot all her life up to today and Tom was no exception. He was just one of the many bees, albeit an old bee (20 years older than my aunt).

Tom was a professional golfer in the mid 80s who visited Malaysia several times for the Malaysian Open Golf Championships. We used to follow these golf tournaments in the sweltering heat and this is how they met. He spotted my aunt amidst the crowds, amidst the greenery, amidst swings and putts, and the pressure to win.

They hit it off instantly and a long distance relationship took off with Tom coming frequently for long vacations. He adored her and placed her on a diamond pedestal as we, the family, watched admiringly. He did bring us for many holidays after all, to the islands around Malaysia.

Tom adored me too, as I was the busy-body teen, who asked too many questions and had so many answers to their whirlwind romance. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have known where Missouri was on the world map as my geography of the US of A is as good as random ants in a coffee cup. I knew where New York, California, Florida, Washington were and now Missouri! He was also the sweetest thing when he sent me his whole collection of ancient stamps (albums of them!) from his family keepsake. I have them till today and intend to pass them down to Tee, assuming she’d be interested.

However, the relationship fizzled eventually because for those of you who know, Missouri is a lo………………………..ng way away and my aunt, who had so much attention here, couldn’t see herself moving to an unknown kampung of America.

Tom was devastated. He would call a million times begging and crying. He would even call me! To change her mind. He wrote thousands of letters that were boring as hell because the only words in them were I love you repeatedly throughout the whole aerogramme.

Alas, days became months. Months became years, and the letters and calls dwindled to nought.

One day, I found Tom’s phone number in an old address book and decided to give him a call. Just because.

He told me he had a tumour in his brain. We wrote then thrice a year till he passed away.

I never thought more of Missouri after that till last week when I chanced upon this holiday package in Branson, Missouri. Memories flooded back and I can see now that Missouri 20 years on, has changed so much compared to the days of Tom when he’d fairytaled us about his hometown and shown us photographs of white winters and vast countrysides.

I would visit Missouri now if ever I was crossing the Pacific Ocean to visit my sister-in-law in Arizona. I’m sure my aunt would have done a second take too if she’d given Missouri half the chance today.

Rest in Peace, Tom. We will always remember you.