September 11, 1997, behind a big window wall somewhere in Bangkok General Hospital, I moved my face even closer, so close that my breath caused a hazy glaze which made my sight even worst. All of them looked the same only that he seemed to have the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. I could tell even though they were closed.
That was the first time I met him. That was the first time I could call myself “a sister.” A few days later we took him back home. I felt like our house had never been so lively like that before. The smell of baby powder, detergent, medicine, and milk still pervade in my memory. His cheeks were so soft and pink that I would have traded anything just to place my little kiss so softly on it. Even though he was born a week ago, nobody had come up with a name that we could all agree to call him. We called him whatever we want until I came up with this name “Gere.”
From then on, I saw Gere grow everyday. I didn’t know how much I love him. I realized again when I found his pictures everywhere around me. Everywhere I went he was always with me, in my purse, my pencil case, my bag pack, my drawer, my books, on my table, and the refrigerator’s door. I can’t live without seeing his face.