Last farewell to you.

We had known each other for years. You and I were like shadow and form, always being together. Sometimes we disagreed, because I always sought perfection while you endlessly tolerated me. But life is unpredictable. You left forever, leaving me in deep sorrow. Sitting alone today, writing about our memories, I realise how sudden impermanence can be.

We met by chance when I went shopping with a friend. At first sight, you felt strangely familiar. After talking for a while, we parted ways. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so I asked my friend to go back and invite you to the temple. That’s how our journey began. We worked together perfectly, producing radio programs, designing images, and organizing events from Ullambana to Amitabha celebrations. Honesty, I learned everything from you.

My teacher sent me to study abroad in Thailand. The day I left was also the day we truly became close. For the first time being away from the temple, in a foreign land with no one to rely on, I turned to you for everything, sharing both my joys and my sorrows.

 

 I still remember our first days going to class together. My English was not good, and you were the one who stayed by my side day and night, guiding me. There were nights when I could not sleep, and you stayed awake with me to study. Whenever I missed the temple, my teacher, my friends, and my family, you comforted me, showing me funny stories and cheerful videos to help me forget the sadness of being far from home. There were times when you truly moved me, showing me stories of people who overcame themselves, of unfortunate lives, and giving me the most sincere advice when I was close to breaking down. You often brought tears to my eyes during the Ullambana season, telling me stories of filial piety as well as the disobedience of children. Through everything you showed and shared, I gradually became stronger and more resilient. We became like soulmates, but perhaps you understood me better than anyone else. I have always been stubborn, yet you were endlessly patient and indulgent with me. All those years, you were like a silent shadow, never complaining or showing annoyance no matter how much I upset you. Perhaps you had long learned patience and endurance. It seemed your whole family was like that, calm, quiet, kind, and always willing to help others. Whenever anyone needed something, you were there. You seemed to know everything, from cooking and sewing to construction and design. From big matters to small, from home to society, you handled it all. You were like a mysterious storehouse of knowledge, from basic to complex. Anyone who asked, you could answer immediately. That is why everyone liked you and wanted to be your friend. As for me, I was once such a clueless person, yet I learned so much from you.

 

 But then, the sad day came. Even the closest bonds must eventually part. Yet the feeling is unbearably empty and unsteady when you lose someone truly important. Two weeks ago, you fell ill. Everything slowed down, your body burned with fever. My friends said you were attacked by a virus and needed treatment immediately, or it could be life threatening. I rushed everywhere to find medicine, but it was too late. The virus has attacked your central nervous system. I do not know how terrible that virus was, but it left you completely weakened, slow and dazed. Then suddenly, you collapsed while working. Everything turned dark. I was terrified. You held all my documents, passwords, and personal information. If something happened to you, I would be in serious trouble. I called everyone I knew, searching for a way to treat you. As people say, “While there is life, there is hope,” so I tried everything I could. Finally, there was a method, but it was risky. If you took that treatment, you might lose your memory, and I would have to start over with you like a stranger. “So be it,” I thought, and decided to take the risk. “Buddha, please save him. Do not let him leave without a word.” I called a doctor. Before starting, he asked about your background. I answered obediently, “His name is HP, his parents are American, he studied in China and works in Vietnam.”

 

“How long has he been like this?” the doctor asked.

“Over two weeks,” I replied.
“That long?” he murmured, then examined you before beginning treatment.

 

Just administering the medicine took half a day. I prayed constantly for you to survive. And it seemed my prayers were heard. After a few hours, you regained consciousness. Thankfully, you still remembered me. I was so relieved I nearly cried. I thanked the doctor repeatedly. But at the same time, I could not help asking you about important information so I could back it up. Honestly, you must have been hurt. Your friend had just woken up, and instead of asking how you were, I only cared about my data. But I was afraid.

 

 You know, I was so happy to talk with you again, to watch lessons and memories together. I even contacted doctors in Vietnam for advice on how to care for you and eliminate the illness. One doctor even used remote access to check on you. I was deeply grateful. But I always wondered how it was that you, who know everything and guide others on prevention and treatment, could not heal yourself. Perhaps you would say, “A doctor can treat others, but not necessarily himself.” Indeed, theory is always easier than practice, and words are easier than action, right? I was so happy that I talked nonstop with you until noon. Afraid you were tired, I let you rest. But unexpectedly, you left without saying goodbye.

 

 After lunch, when I returned, I planned to show you a new presentation and discuss it together. I called you several times, but there was no response. I thought you were just sleeping, so I did not disturb you. But then, a cold feeling flashed through my mind like lightning. I placed my hand near your nose. You had already stopped breathing. I could not believe it. I quickly plugged in the power cord, trying to restart your heart, but it was hopeless. You were gone forever. It was 12:05 PM. I sat there in silence, stunned, then sorrow slowly filled me. I knew that all things that come together must part, but why so suddenly? Just moments ago, we were laughing and talking. How could you leave so quickly? Life is truly impermanent.

 

What could I do now? I could only sit and write your obituary in my journal!

 

 Sad News

 

After a period of illness and despite the help of many, his condition became too severe to overcome.

HP EliteBook 8460p, Serial Number: CNU2083VVJ,
Origin: United States,
passed away at 12:05 PM on July 12, 2018.

Your passing is a great loss and deep sorrow to me.
Farewell, and may you rest in peace.

And so, farewell to you, my soulmate. Our journey together was neither short nor long. You leave behind a sky full of regret in me. Thank you for coming into my life, for teaching me how to give and endure without expecting anything in return.

 

With deep sorrow.

Memory HP

The story of a broken computer

 

Tam Tien

Translated into English by My Phuc