Grandmother

A Sunday morning.
I woke up to the knock on the door,
you've arrived.

This morning you came for breakfast.
A rare occasion for you were always travelling,
going somewhere,
working--cleaning offices.
And during times which you weren't, you settle in front of the sewing machine kit.
And sew,
pants, bags, mattress covers, blankets for the family.

This morning, we sat at the dining table.
I felt a tinkling of my heart,
sudden warmth enveloping,
spreading its long hands aound me.
(long forgotten)

Over pancakes, coffee and hot chocolate,
we listened to the ancedotes you pulled out from each of your travels
as we passed the butter knife around the table.

After breakfast,
you came into my room.
Glance fugitively around,
with a quick hand pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill,
forcefully pushing it into my busy hands.

"Here, take, i don't come every often. The food cost so expensive these days. $5.80 for a bowl of udon. Use this to buy something nice for yourself."

I looked at the note lying limplessly on my hands.
Still.
Folded again and again into small rectangles to fit into your purse.
Then i looked into your eyes.
I saw the beginnings of cataracts formation--
the watery texture of the whites and dilution of black.
The face of grace and compassion
lined with a few more wrinkled,
whose cheeks now sagged further.
I put my hands on yours,
they were painful against your calloused ones.

On leaving,
I saw your familiar silhouette.
Bags and plastic bags slumped across both shoulders.

However,
gone were the lithe in your steps
as you walked towards the door
like treading on thin ice,
like a migratory bird--tired from flight.

I smile at the familiar,
tear for my cowardice,
cringe at the unknown.

House (s)

Living in the same white-washed walls,
eating from the same plates during dinner,
and breathing the same heavy-fogged air,
we're shouldn't differ too much.

But it's a pity.
The similarity only ends there,
for after it, we open the doors to the little worlds of our own,
enter. close. and begin,
leading seperate lives.
opening it again only for meals, weekends
and post-school days.

My house houses five houses.
These houses operate on different frequencies.
They have their own language, wavelengths and ideals.
Diversity is great in a country,
not a house.

Sometimes, in fact very often,
misunderstandings do arise,
and when it does,
so begins the silent firing of missiles between houses,
curses, expelatives hurled like comets,
raining down at ferocious speed.

crushing. destroying. down.
it offers satisfaction, but only momentary.
then guilt sinks in, and it stays.

But ultimately,
these houses still belong to one house.

2 June 09

This time, i will be silent,
and see who remembers.

Elaborate party of most sixteens, or fanciful and expensive gifts even brief birthday well wishes from acquaintances and strangers might come along with the day. If you are lucky.

but i am saving luck for next time.

i do not need much, to begin with.

Mother(land)

Since young, I have felt this passionate love and patroitism towards my Mother--a love so insurmountable that nothing could ever waver my fortitude about growing up, aging and finally dying within her embrace.

But as I grew older, I saw people around me leaving to countries I'd only visited in dreams. And then, there're also people coming back, and they bring with them tales of exotic foreign lands--joyous and animated in its every remembered detail...

I began to think, and imagined myself travelling, living in these places. I decide that one day I shall travel to them all, maybe even live in their cities and farms for a few years. For, Mother is too hot. She is too crowded and mundane. Mother, who is made up of nothing but concrete and marble.

But eventually, there is always something endearing about Mother--her ability to tug at my heartstrings, winding me back, without resorting to forceful means.

Tonight, as I lie in bed, I will think about the things that defines me as her child.

chickenricedaddymummysataykiasuclaypotsteamboatdurians

when i grow up, i want to travel, visit new places, meet new people, try new dishes. an island, a country, a region, then a continent. how nice would that be!

Snail + Mails

i love snails,
i love mails.
their surprise,
like a prize.
A priceless posession, an addition to .....

Sights at a playground

I see,
children engaging in a game of tug-of-war,
which turns a little too violent.

I see,
people engaging in lively banter,
of which words turned into knives,
and smiles into fists.
piercing through flesh,
without regard for the heart.

I see,
parents playing with their kids,
blissful and contented (is it?).

then turning away, victimised.
by the ghosts of doubt and jealousy
plaguing those bonded by a sacred oath.

Dusk decends,
birds return to their nests,
but these people stay,
they have nowhere to go.

their homes,
raided, bombed, destroyed,
by their own bloodied hands.

where is home now? (CRIES OUT LOUD)

i have decided to end it. here, and now.

attention diverted,
to the skies above,
from the view ahead.

In-fat-uation is, now officially O-val.