Father used to say people are like a grain of rice. We could be food, and swallowed whole, with other thousands of grains, and still be remembered as the nicest meal; or be seed, planted and grown, forever remembered for all the mouths it fed. But the grain on the floor, that fed nobody and died under a rock, that one will stay forgotten, for it has never done what it was supposed to do in the world.
People are only remembered when they reach their potential. His was me, he said, before turning on the lights for the shadow theatre. Behind that screen, he was gentle and loving. After the show, he was Sifu again. I miss those brief moments, sometimes.
That night he told a story of a tigress and a bee hive. One that I never forgot. It was my mission, and his.