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Horace Sun, 1966-2008
From The Asian Reporter, V18, #14 (April 1, 2008), page 6.
An unexpected gift
Sometimes you don’t find out about the life of a man until that life is gone.
I lost a cousin recently. He was far too young to go. I knew him as a down-to-earth, unassuming, and good-humored person. I knew he liked to take pictures. I knew that if there was a family reunion, no matter what, cousin Horace would be there.
But most of what I knew of him I learned when we were both kids.
He loved gadgets and electronics. He loved music and comic books. He liked to fish, and the fish seemed to sense his joy by rewarding him with a lot of activity while my line would sit noticeably still in the water. At the time, he lived close to us, and since he was a couple years younger it often felt like I had a second little brother when he was around.
Time goes on, and while he only lived about two hours away, except for our annual family reunions, life often takes you down separate paths. He stayed single while I got married and ended up with a carload of kids. Life moves on and before you know it, you start to lose touch.
Of course, when I found out that he had become gravely ill, we rushed to his side like much of our extended family, in the hopes that he might just make it. Instead, each of us got to stand by him and quietly say our goodbyes.
It wasn’t until then, and in the following days, that I really got to know cousin Horace. I learned so much more about him. I learned his life was about so much more. I learned about how beloved he really was.
I learned all of this from his friends.
The moment we arrived in the hospital to see him, there were waves of people, crowding the waiting room, lined up along the hospital corridor, many sobbing, completely grief stricken. At one point there were 50 people practically lined-up down a hallway, waiting to get a chance to see Horace.
I spoke to many of them. Each had a unique story to tell, describing in great detail how Horace had gone out of his way to help a friend or lend a shoulder to cry on. He would help friends who never asked for his help. He would surprise friends by dropping by to cook a fancy dinner or buy a welcome mat with a picture of a dog on it because he knew his friend liked dogs.
I met one woman who told me Horace had taught her to speak English when she came to the U.S. in the 1980s. Another friend sobbed as she told me Horace had bought her a new car when she needed one. Two or three more friends explained how Horace helped them get through a tough divorce.
Horace would drop by unexpectedly at one workplace or another and volunteer to fix computers or deliver some food. He would arrive for a party and serve as the unofficial photographer for the evening. In a casual conversation, if someone happened to mention they needed a book, or stapler, or panty hose — Horace would go out of his way to get it for them.
One friend mentioned, "Horace always has a smile on his face. At the end of the day, that is the one thing you can count on — Horace is smiling."
The outpouring of love and support from Horace’s huge network of friends was a surprise to many of us in the family. Not that anyone was surprised that he had friends, but mostly from the sheer magnitude of it.
I can’t speak for anyone else, but my first reaction was a pang of guilt — I should have paid more attention. I should have made more of an effort. I should have known.
But such feelings can’t change the past, and fortunately, my life has been full of blessings already. For cousin Horace — his life, at least according to his friends, was exceptionally happy.
I’ve come to the realization that while I could have had a closer relationship with Horace, I still have time to make a difference in the lives of all my other cousins and friends. I can still appreciate them and make sure we never lose touch.
That is the unexpected gift Horace has given me, and I am just one more person who owes him a debt of gratitude. Thank you so much, Horace.
I know, somewhere out there — Horace is smiling.