Today, my father rang up to tell me that one of his office staff, Khoo, had been run over by a motorcyclist and died.
I didn't know Khoo well but I remember that when I was small - about 6 or 7 years old - he used to take me across the street to the store to buy comics and sweets. I remember him as a kindly man, who didn't say much. I hardly go to my father's office these days - but if I visited, it was usually a fleeting visit and I'd just nod to him as he sat in the front office. He had been sitting at the same desk for as long as I remember, and I guess I thought that he'd always be there - immortal.
My father said that they were surprised that Khoo hadn't come to work this morning and they called up hospitals to see if he was there. And he was. My father said Khoo was 80 years old. I was quite shocked. How can he be 80? He didn't look 80 to me the last time I saw him. And if he was 80, what was he doing still working? My father then told me that he actually didn't do any work, but he needed the money, because he lived alone. So he just came to work everyday and got a salary.
And just in an instant, he's gone.
It makes me sad to think of his life - what has he been doing for the past 80 years. And how it would have benefited him for his next life.
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