I ticked off a bucket list that wasn’t even mine.

It was my sister’s.

Flew myself and my family to Sydney just to watch The Lion King at the Capitol Theatre last May. Savouring my last few weeks with her before she left for France at the expense of my annual leave allowance, which I was lucky enough to secure considering how we’re mostly understaffed on Thursdays and Fridays.

Raven didn’t enjoy the play but she didn’t have to. I didn’t care. She was coming with us, whether she liked it or not. A form of systematic desensitisation, so to speak. One that would expose her to performance arts. One that would cultivate her sense of appreciation for human genius and creativity as she watched theatre actors on stilts turned into walking giraffes; how the play of light and colours transformed the stage into a cinematic version of Africa.

Not quite the real thing, of course, but just as spectacular.

Perhaps it’s a generation thing. As *cough* millenials, we grew up watching Disney movies and reading fairytales where everyone lived happily ever after which explains our fondness for Lion King. I daresay it was mainly millenial parents out there dragging our kids to watch the play whose story touched our younger hearts and taught us to Hakuna Matata life in our adulthood, hoping it would rub off on our next generation so they, too, learn about the circle of life and how childhood trauma shapes us into the kind of people we choose to be.

For as long as I am able, I will keep dragging her to watch plays with me. I don’t care. She will be my theatre buddy and together, we will sit there and marvel at human talent. After which, we will sit at a cafe and sip our coffees while we discuss our thoughts and feelings about the show.

Or about boyfriend issues, whatever.

*Raven at 10 years old