The Bank of Memory

May 29, 2025

There’s a quiet place we all carry within us—a sacred space I’ve come to understand more deeply with time. My husband Fugie once shared something with me after the loss of his brother and father. He said along these lines, “Each life is like a memory bank. When their time here is done, all we have left are the deposits they made in us—the memories, the lessons, the love.” At the time, I held onto his words, not fully grasping their weight. But now, with the passing of my own mother, I understand. I understand completely.

In the fall of 2021, our family’s memory banks were shaken by two profound losses—just days apart.

First, we lost my father-in-law. He passed away in a hospital bed, surrounded by his family who kept vigil by his side. They sat with him for hours, holding his hand, whispering words of comfort, and simply being there. The grief in that room was heavy—layered with pain, unspoken regrets, and the awareness that time had run out. But even in the sadness, there was love. There was presence. There was farewell.

Then, just two days later, came the unthinkable.

Kung Meng—Fugie’s older brother, his mentor, his moral compass who lived in Minnesota—also passed away. He had been intubated for days and before his wife or youngest brother Chris could get to his bedside, he was gone. He took his final breath alone, without a loved one there to hold his hand or whisper goodbye. That reality has haunted us.

For my husband, it left a deep scar—one that hasn’t yet fully healed. Kung Meng wasn’t just a brother. He was the man who helped shape Fugie’s character, instilling values, grounding him in right and wrong, and offering steady guidance through every storm. Kung Meng was a model of patience, compassion, and wisdom. He was the one everyone turned to for guidance, a listening ear, or simply companionship that made you feel safe.

Losing him so unexpectedly, and in such a lonely way, added layers of grief that words can hardly touch. And though my husband rarely speaks of it outright, I see the weight he still carries. I feel the silent sorrow that creeps in during quiet moments, the sense that he hasn’t quite forgiven himself. For what, I don’t know exactly—but grief doesn’t need logic to make someone feel responsible. Sometimes it’s just the pain of not having had a chance to say what needed to be said. Sometimes it’s the ache of not being there. And sometimes it’s simply survivor’s guilt—the question of why them and not me?

But I believe, with every part of me, that Kung Meng and my father-in-law wouldn’t want him or any of his siblings to carry this burden. They would want him to forgive himself. To live with peace, not punishment. To understand that love was always there, even if the goodbye didn’t go as we hoped. They would want him to know that the memory bank they left behind is still alive within him, his brothers, and nephews—and that they are still making deposits into others through the way they live, love, and lead.

Forgiveness, especially of ourselves, is a difficult road. It’s not a switch we flip—it’s a path we walk. But healing begins when we choose to remember through the lens of grace. When we stop asking what we should’ve done and start cherishing what we did do. When we let memory become a gift instead of a weight.

Now, having walked through the loss of my own mother, I finally understand what Fugie meant. The memory banks of our loved ones have expired. We can no longer touch them, call them, reminisce or hear their laughter in the room. But what we retain—the parts of them that live on in us—are priceless. They are our inheritance. They are our guidance. They are the echoes that still shape us.

We honor them when we forgive.

We honor them when we heal.

We honor them when we carry their light forward—into our families, our relationships, and the lives we continue to build.

As I continue to deposit my own memories into the bank left behind by those we’ve lost, I hold tightly to this truth: When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. And treasures aren’t meant to be hidden away. 

They’re meant to be shared.

Lived out.

Passed on.

So we live, we remember, we forgive—and in doing so, we keep their legacy alive.