At 91, there was nothing Nina could do other than reading and painting. She refused to go to the nursing home because she believed that she was still strong and healthy, and able to live alone. She was very stubborn. When her son asked her to move in with him and his wife in the city, she said, “Why do you want me to move to the city? Do you want me to die earlier from air pollution?”
Nina had never left the small village where she was born. She would think of broccoli every time she study the hills that surrounded the village. In every sunrise, the village would be blanketed with shadow of the Kinabalu Mountain. She liked sunrise, she enjoyed watching the morning ray slowly revealing the mountain's wrinkled surface. She would wait for it everyday, as she sip black tea in the cold, misty dawn, and she would think: Why would I ever want to leave this place?
When the morning was ripe, kids would start to appear, walking passed her tiny house to their school, which located about fifty meters from her house. The kids would greet her, sometimes they would stop by to see her orchid blooms. After school, some kids, especially the older ones, would ask her to tell them stories about the world war, about the Japanese and how she'd survived it. Her son had never heard any of the story. He had never gotten interested in his mother's past.
One Sunday, her son visited her. He bought a television for her and installed Astro. As he explained to her how to use the remote control, Nina said, "Stop! Right there...yes...this one." It was the History channel, showing a documentary about the World War II. Smiling, her eyes were glassy as she continued watching.
"Ma, you were in this war," her son said suddenly. "You've suffered enough. And now you're watching this for entertainment?"
Nina turned to her son. She smiled, shrugged her shoulders and said, "But it was my youth."