Conversation By Myself

Nostalgia is a strange feeling. It is the immortal youth of pop idols in music video pixels. The chorus of familiar songs.

It started with a text.

“Have you heard?”

No, I haven’t, but now I have.

Words on a screen conveyed your  passing. It isn’t even recent. No one heard until one of us did. Months have passed in the interim.

We were not close. But I saw you two years ago with your mother outside my office. You brought her to a medical appointment. You made time. I imagine I remember your voice from that last conversation we had.

I had not heard, but now I have heard. That you have passed.

I remember your voice in the seminar room. Saying the words Magna Carta.

I wish you well. Rest well, my friend.

(In memory of Mr. Dean Salleh)

The wedding photo sat easily in its silver frame. It once had pride of position on the table. A table that was now filled with the scattered toys of Serene’s two children. Rushing back to the kitchen to finish baking her firstborn’s birthday cake, the photo caught her eye. Serene picked up the photo frame tenderly with her flour dusted fingers. It has been years since she last considered the photo. He always knew how to capture her at her best. She looked resplendent in her wedding dress with her husband by her side. Philip was dashing in his wedding tuxedo. She smiled happily into the camera. Her eyes on the photographer. Her thoughts wandered back to what could have been, but she was brought swiftly back to reality by the screams of her two children. Her baby had woken up again. She placed the photo frame carefully back on the table. A flour dusted fingerprint marked its surface. The only evidence of the moment that she had stolen for herself. Motherhood leaves little time for nostalgia.

Faded tattoos wrinkled skin

gleaming watch marking time

Time marked by amulets

on frayed discolored strings

Mullet hair 

Past present glory

Do they know who I am?

My deeds my actions make 

My story

Bus stopping Brakes lurching

Heart beating yet another day

Life seeping

Faded tattoos past glory

Where is my time machine?

I lay on my futon in Asahikawa, Hokkaido. An unlit cigarette between my lips. I looked up at the peeling ceiling paint. Pale white, uneven and light. A small fan rotated and pushed the air around the room. The Airbnb host had warned against smoking in the apartment. I light up anyway.

Thirty four going on thirty five years old this year. This week, in fact. I deserved a break. A birthday treat. I exhaled the cigarette smoke slowly.

My phone lay screen facing down beside me. Unread messages from the wife vibrating away. I try to forget the child I left disappointed in Singapore. Who I had promised to bring to the zoo that weekend and who I had broken many promises to. My child.

I think back about 2004. Thirteen years ago.

It would snow heavily the night before my twenty first birthday. I would wake up twenty one years of age to witness a white out for the first time. Snow covered every surface outside my dorm room window. I felt awe. A pang of sadness. A future unwritten then.

I can no longer see her face in my mind. That girl.

I have forgotten that I once helped her with her luggage.

All I ever said to her was “Hi”.

“I do not love you.”

Those were the last words I said to her. On New Year’s Eve. 1982.

It must be her, I thought.

Thirty years had passed since I last saw her. In a basement in London. At a session of Liars Anonymous.

I walked closer. Feeling warm coffee slosh about in the paper cup I held. I spied the self-same style of spectacles she favoured. That bob cut hair. That smile. It must be her.

“Sylvia?”

She looked up. Confusion flickered in her eyes before recognition set in. She allowed the hint of a smile before hiding it.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“Yes. Yes, I think you do.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

I sat myself beside her. I could not help smiling. The sequence felt familiar despite the years. Lie, assertion, lie. Ping pong, but with words. I reached for her hand. This old woman almost sixty. She did not retract under my touch.

We sat in silence. Old bodies on an old wooden bench. In autumn light, almost winter.

Finally, she said.

“I do not love you too.”

The year was 2004. My freshman year in college. Cornell University. Ithaca. A college town in upstate New York that I could not place on a map then. That I still cannot place on a map now.

FRIENDS would screen its last episode after a ten season run. A real cultural event. People gathered to watch, cry, say goodbye. To Ross, Rachel, Joey, Phoebe, Monica and Chandler.

The US would admit that there were no weapons of mass destruction to justify the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Bush would still beat Kerry to gain a second term. Students cried foul in Cornell. We were in the solidly blue state of New York after all.

Britney Spears would get married twice in 2004. The first marriage lasted only 55 hours. Neither marriage would be to Justin Timberlake, her one time love. Justin would cause Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction later that year. The jury remains out on whether it was a publicity stunt.

It was my first time away from home. Like really away from home. Half the world, twelve time zones away.

I stuck a poster of Elva Hsiao on my side of the shared dorm room. Next to a preciously procured poster of Noriko Sakai. My Ichiban. I look out my large almost floor to ceiling dorm room window. The buildings were modern like in Singapore, but the nature surrounding the buildings was different.

Familiar, yet unfamiliar. 2004 was that type of year.

It was on an ordinary Wednesday evening that Peter decided to end his life. It had dawned on him that his life was on a downward slope and there was nothing positive to look forward to.

He replied the last of his emails. He made sure all the electrical devices were turned off. He cleaned his flat one last time. He might not have left the world better through his meaningless life, but he was determined to at least leave his patch of it tidy.

He left the door to his flat unlocked. He did not want to trouble others to have to break into the flat after he was gone. Peter had always been obliging. Easy. Immaterial.

He stood on the concrete parapet. He felt the warm humid air stain the last shirt he would ever wear with sweat. And he did the last thing he had to do.

The little girl studied the biscuit tins. Rows of gold tinged containers holding all sorts of confectionary treasures. She pawed eagerly at the tins, causing the top tins to wobble. Grandma rushed to pull her back. Ever protective.

Grandma carried the little girl in her arms. Level with the tins. She allowed the little girl time to admire the different biscuits in each tin. Even when the little girl started to weigh heavy.

They had always been close. The little girl had visited often, even before the accident. Now, the little girl lived with Grandma. Now, it was just the two of them.

“Which one you want, Ming? Which one you want?”

The little girl pointed at the tin with the ice gem biscuits. She always chose the ice gem biscuits. Grandma could see why. The bright colored toppings were attractive. The little girl liked to play with the biscuits before eating them. Sorting them by color. Forming patterns.

Grandma paid the storekeeper at Auntie’s Store for the biscuits. She only bought the minimum amount each time. The biscuits stayed fresher that way, and there was little money to spare after the passing of the little girl’s parents.

Grandma led the little girl by hand and started the short walk home. The little girl with a plastic bag of treasured ice gem biscuits grasped tightly in her hand.

***

Ming sat quietly next to Grandma.  She had managed to come home early from work and decided to bring Grandma out for a walk. The doctor had said that familiar surroundings would be good for Grandma. Slow the progress of her dementia.

There were no surroundings more familiar than the neighborhood of Yishun. Ming had stayed here with Grandma since she was a little girl. Since her parents passed.

They had stopped at Auntie’s Store. Located at Block 734, the store had been run by the same auntie for as long as Ming could remember. The store was a time capsule. Auntie had never bothered to re-arrange the layout of the wares she sold over the years. The same freezer kept the ice cream treats that Ming once scampered to reach. Packets of nasi lemak remained unsold from the morning. On the side of the store, familiar rows of biscuit tins sat tidily.

Ming bought a small packet of ice gem biscuits and brought them back to Grandma. She offered Grandma a piece, which Grandma took happily. It was not the healthiest food option, but it was food that Grandma would eat. Ming had learnt that, sometimes, to care for someone, you had to let them be.

A little girl wearing a worn t-shirt and baggy shorts walked up to Ming and Grandma. Ming had never seen this girl before. Must be daughter of new neighbor, she thought.

The little girl spied the packet of ice gem biscuits and held out her hand expectantly. Ming was about to pass a biscuit to the little girl when Grandma took one from the packet.

Looking at the little girl, Grandma said.

“Ming ah. You want? You want?”

The little girl looked surprised, but nodded. She took the ice gem biscuit and ran off gleefully. Not taking a look back.

“Ming ah. Don’t run so fast. Don’t run.”

Ming held Grandma down as she agitated to chase after the little girl.

“Ming ah. Don’t run. Don’t run.”

Ming soothed Grandma by running her hand gently down Grandma’s hair. She felt the agitation ease out of Grandma’s body. She felt damp on Grandma’s shoulder. It was only then that Ming realized she had been crying.

“Girl, you want tissue?”

The taxi driver said the words and waited. He snuck a look at his passenger through the rear-view mirror. His passenger did not reply. She looked about thirty. But as she sobbed, she appeared younger. Like a child.

She had been composed when she first boarded his taxi. Gave instructions on where she wanted to be driven to. She broke down at the first traffic light they crossed.

He wondered what had broken her heart, but he was old enough to know not to ask. The air conditioning in the taxi was cold, but the sunlight warmed his hands. The pedestrians crossed the road as the traffic light prepared to turn green. The world continuing on its way. Unaware of the woman whose heart was broken in his back seat.

She handed him a ten-dollar bill when they arrived at her destination. She had stopped crying but there were still tears on her face. Tears that snaked black mascara down her cheeks.

He passed her change. A half-used packet of tissue. She bit her lip, looked him in the eye and nodded. She exited the taxi. The door held open by a new passenger.

Today is a happy day. My daughter is getting married today. My precious third child. My youngest. I smile as I watch my son-in-law caress her gently on the cheek. Taking a moment for themselves amidst the attention of their friends. It is their day after all.

The reception is tastefully decorated. Polaroids hung on raffia string allow friends and family insights into the couple’s life. Showing how they grew up. How they met. I do not need the photographs of my daughter, of course. I was there. I was always there.

My daughter is beautiful at thirty-six. I already had her when I was thirty-six. But this is another generation. She had dreams to pursue before wedding bells called. I wonder if she will give me a grandchild.

I shed a tear. My family sees me crying. They nod knowingly. Mothers are meant to cry at their daughter’s wedding. They know of love, but they do not know. That love is my breast removed. Cancer metastasized. That love is bad news unsaid. Kept inside. That love is. Love is. Love.