We all go home, in the end. We wend our way, through chilly airports and tropical train stations and lonely bus depots, carrying winter coats and taking off woolen scarves and carefully arranging gifts so their wrappers aren’t too crumpled by the time we reach the door.
Inside, always, a Mother: one who tends a stove, one who waits for some large pot to boil, the gravy, the potatoes, the stew, the gumbo, the curry, the laksa. One in charge of the nativity, one who’s carefully garlanded the tree, one who’s prepared the way, tending with grace and devotion, waiting for her baby to arrive.
How strange it was. I woke up one morning and I was a blade of grass. My life was spent reaching out to the sun. I did not have much time, even less than the lilies of the field.
And all around me were fellow blades of grass, swaying gently. And when I listened closely, I could hear a quiet, passionate hum:
“Oh, to be human!” they sang. “Oh to have arms and legs and eyelashes and fingers. Oh to be able to dance and play and step all over us. Oh to be able to hurt and cry and be in pain, to laugh and sneeze and fall in love.”
I had a nightmare. The door was darker than dark. The Wicked Witch – of the West, of the East – stood in white shadow. A dog chewed at my hand, gnawing at heart-strings. I fended it off, it hurtled into blackness.
She reached into my body, wrenched.
My heart! I cried. – my heart rolled onto the floor -
My father said. My father said, run your own race. My father said, don’t look to your left or to your right. My father said, head only for your own finishing line. He said, never, ever stop halfway. Never stop halfway.
My father ran. My father ran from starting block to tape, he shuffled from one goalpost to another, he long-jumped across sand. He ran from my mother when she was angry. My father laughed. He said life was too absurd to take seriously. He said you must have a passion, a dream.
My father brandished a hockey stick, drank teh at the Seng Nam.
Shouldn’t we get someone older? I mean, this pudgy cherub, is he the best we have? Shouldn’t we get someone with more experience, someone with Relationships Management on his CV, Couples Counselling, that kind of thing?
Shouldn’t we at least equip him with a better set of bow and arrows? Perhaps quills that come in identical pairs, so two people fall in love at the same time, with the same intensity? Shouldn’t we ensure that none of the tips are poisoned, so nobody gets hurt?
And why can’t we – in this day and age when everyone seems to be raising money for everything – cobble some funds together and pay him for some shooting lessons, so that at least he can improve his aim?
01:00 – Cannot sleep. But it’s OK, it’s only 1. Thing is, to be jaunty. Walk about. Make hot milk. Read detective novel. Too exciting. Read today’s papers. Soporific. So why still not nodding off?
02:00 – Think sadly of how could have slept at 1; wonder miserably if will still be awake at 3.
03:00 – Capitulation. No more fighting to sleep! Pretend everything normal, surrender to situation. Now indifferent, apathetic, apolitical. Strangely somnolent. Sleeping through insomnia.
Do you want snow? asked the man. You can have snow. I can make it fall from the top of your screen to the bottom, and it won’t leave a puddle on your laptop.
I thought about my country, with its luscious fruits and sweaty jungles. For some reason, I felt I was betraying it. I have seen snow several times, but only once when it was falling. It swirled down from heaven like dessicated coconut.
Yes, I told the snow man. Yes, please give me snow.
I did not know, I did not know that Grief lay in wait for me in another room. Who knew? Who knew that Grief could lurk in a linen cupboard?
I was in the kitchen, putting the kettle to boil. And then I thought – I need to do the laundry.
And so I padded to the other room, opened a wooden door, and all was well until I caught sight of a row of bathroom towels, all white and fluffy like rice, and then it hit me, the remembrance of things past, the things I did and didn’t do, the people I have lost.
