抖阴APP导航

You don鈥檛 have to be a fan of Modern Love (a romance franchise that began as a column in The New York Times and has grown to include a podcast and a Netflix series) to enjoy a couple of random love stories connected to 抖阴APP导航.

In no particular order, you鈥檒l find short stories that are tender, quirky, sweet and sad 鈥� love is, indeed, a many-splendoured thing 鈥� for Valentine鈥檚 Day.

The tiles that bind

Every summer was the same.

Even when I was very young, I would leave my mom in Calgary and fly to Vancouver to spend time with my extended family from Hong Kong.

What I remember most were the days I spent at my grandmother鈥檚 walkout suite. I was very shy, so I would sit obediently and survey her living quarters: one long black couch, an old, deep 鈥渂ig box鈥� TV, her colourful phone (the horizontal kind, not an upright), a white fridge next to a sink and small counter.

On the counter were small snacks: drinks in boxes (soy milk, sesame milk, some chrysanthemum tea, lemon tea), fruit, instant noodles, etc. Everything, except for the couch, phone and TV, was white. For some reason, the screen door was always open, so it was always breezy and pleasantly coolish.

And then I鈥檇 hear it.

The sound, a sort of clack, of mah-jong tiles being shuffled by my grandma. And there was always a clock tick-tocking somewhere in her place that also served to ratchet up my anxiety 鈥� just like Jeopardy music 鈥� as I tried to keep pace with her.

We would speak Cantonese together (she never did learn to speak English) and she would whomp me, game after game, snack after snack. She鈥檇 laugh and prod me to play faster, but I never got speedy or ever reached her level. Not even close.

Honestly, playing mah-jong (a cross between rummy and bridge) with my gram made math in school look simple. Math, probability, luck and a memory are things you need to play; my grandma had them in spades.

She鈥檚 102 now and I haven鈥檛 seen her since before COVID. My aunties and uncles tell me she doesn鈥檛 play mah-jong anymore.

So, as a legacy, I鈥檝e decided to teach my friends how to play. And now I think of my gram when I shuffle the 鈥渄eck,鈥� but it鈥檚 not the same. Sometimes, I wonder if I should buy a small carton of sesame milk or chrysanthemum tea? Or a loud clock?

In truth, I miss her. The wonder I felt as I watched her elegant fingers flip each tile over, reading the dots and bams and Chinese characters as though it was Braille, comes back with each click and clack.

Sometimes, I wonder if the ancient game might be a bit of a character-meter. Perhaps that鈥檚 why I came to think of my grandma as someone who is funny, sharp, generous and honest.

Perhaps there was magic in those tiles?  鈥� Jessica Tong, BA鈥�21, junior communications specialist, 抖阴APP导航

A love letter to the wonder years (and my not-so-little girl)

Of course, I knew the time would come . . . when your unwavering belief in tooth fairies and witches and Santa Claus and the man in the moon would end. But I didn鈥檛 see this particular day coming.

And it cracked my heart. Wide open. Not to be a pop psychologist, but I had read Barbara Coloroso, and so I knew the 鈥渞ules鈥� and that they were healthy and normal and likely good for us, but so is Durian fruit and I can鈥檛 stand the stuff.

The moment began like any other after-school time. Oversized knapsacks were dropped at the door, shoes were kicked off and you and your brother, Quinn, would bolt up to your rooms to do who-knows-what. That鈥檚 when I would begin dinner prep with CBC as my stalwart companion.

In a typical 4-6 p.m. slot, you and your brother would drift down to the kitchen after playing for about an hour to have a snack and share your highlight reel of the day. If you were late, and I had time, I would sometimes stand outside your closed bedroom doors and listen.

Quinn was always in another galaxy, making webs of wool around furniture and his vast empire of Lord of the Rings characters.

You, on the other hand, re-enacted your day 鈥� sort of. Sometimes, you were the librarian, the teacher, the principal, a big kid at recess. Conversations got replayed, edited, rewritten and then played again.

No matter the role, you were always the main character. (And today, so many years later, you remain the same. Strong, but adaptable; good with accents and character plays; compassionate, reasonable, smart, insightful . . . were you fully formed at eight?)

But I digress. There I was at the kitchen counter, chopping an onion (this is a key item for soon after, tears were streaming down my cheeks) when you came down in your pink Pocahontas (sorry) sweatshirt, barrettes all akimbo and socks that didn鈥檛 match (they never did). You were early . . . your hour wasn鈥檛 up, which I noticed on the oven clock.

鈥淲hat鈥檚 up, Buttercup?鈥� I asked, innocently, expecting you to divulge a critical scene of some schoolyard drama.

But you said nothing and looked so woebegone. I scooped you up, moved aside the breadboard and placed you on the counter, eye to eye. I still remember your rosy cheeks and shiny hair, but most of all I remember your big, black, wet eyes.

And then you spoke. Your voice cracking, a little.

鈥淢um, they don鈥檛 talk to me anymore,鈥� you said, a tear trickling down your face. 鈥淭hey鈥檝e stopped.鈥�

鈥淲ho?鈥� I asked, all guns a-blazing, ready to take on some 鈥� any 鈥� disloyal friend or schoolyard bully.

鈥淢y dollies.鈥�

I was not ready for this . . . this tragedy, where the 鈥淲onder Years鈥� come to a blinding stop. This called for an intervention 鈥� of epic proportions. It was Chunky Monkey time. We tucked into the pint of Chunky Monkey and discussed off-days and wondered if the voices were just sick or in hiding and whether they鈥檇 come back. Eventually.

They never did. 鈥� Deb Cummings, MEd'17, lead, alumni storytelling and engagement, 抖阴APP导航

Love the one you鈥檙e with? Or choose the one you love?

There鈥檚 a photo of the two of them, dated 1999, Delhi. Both appear to be keeping their distance, just two typical students (we discover later) on a clinical psychology practicum with no chart, no linear map, to their future. Stare a little closer and Shaminder Singh looks, well . . . like鈥檚 he鈥檚 staring, sort of swooning as though he鈥檚 already smitten with Sumeeta Kapoor.

鈥淚 likely was,鈥� admits Singh , PhD鈥�19, now an assistant professor of nursing and midwifery at Mount Royal University.

鈥淔or me, it was love at first sight. But, remember, I was a village guy and she was a city girl and our families did not agree that we should marry,鈥� he adds, quickly. 鈥淓ver. They made that abundantly clear.鈥�

鈥淚n India,鈥� explains Singh, 鈥渕arriage is not perceived as a relationship between two people but as a relationship between families in a community.鈥�

And so began a five-year complex tug-of-war between not only opposing parents but also relatives, workplaces, in fact, their entire communities. While that backdrop was unfurling, Singh and Kapoor were trying to focus on higher education and future careers in psychology while constantly striving to convince their families.

Finally, in 2004, both families accepted and allowed the couple to marry. But the bumps and junctures didn鈥檛 end. Two years later, the couple moved to teach high school in South Carolina and three years after that to Calgary to pursue nursing degrees.

Now, years later, both with solid careers, Singh says 鈥渙ur parents and siblings finally fully approve of us and our marriage, and they seem proud of us. But we know from experience, it requires a lot of active work to smooth the edges of a relationship when you are from two different cultures. It鈥檚 never easy, and probably, that is why our families resisted initially.鈥�

鈥淥verall,鈥� adds Singh, 鈥渨e think that love and relationships are not passive ventures; we work like a team to actively manage them by accepting and arguing, supporting each other, having open and honest communication, and celebrating small successes in life.

鈥淲hen nothing else works, our cultural values support us, including the value that marriage is about two people and reaches beyond time. If we experience a storm, we hang tight and let it pass, knowing it will.鈥� 鈥�  As told to Deb Cummings. This interview has been edited and condensed.

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