Questa è Enida

Dear Dove,
I was standing in the corridor just outside the gym waiting for Kitreena to finish her basketball game last Wednesday when I realized it was no fun anymore. Standing in the corridor outside the gym here is not as exciting as standing in the corridor of that school, with you.

You and our silly underarm-hair stories. You and the gossip about those parents with their designer-kids. You and our exchange of reminders that although we are no engineers, nor are we ever to be seen wearing a Coach bag on each arm purchased with a split-second decision (and paying for them through our nose credit card scheme for the next 98++ months), we are doing okay.

I miss those little ‘Hey you!’ and ‘Don’t hug me, I stink!’ greetings in the morning at the school parking. I hugged you anyway. I miss those little ‘I see you at 3!’ and ‘Don’t drive too fast!’ goodbyes when we walked from the canteen or past the security post. I drove fast and drove you crazy anyway.

I can’t make myself sit on those low benches – the kind that they usually have in the gyms – anymore. For I fear I would miss you so much I could cry while watching basketball games. I don’t look around for familiar faces – the way I used to do whenever you saw me – anymore. For I fear I would not find you, miss you even more and for the fear that I would cry anyway.

The thing is, I don’t cry anymore. Not the way I used to cry with you. Sad stories were told with smiles on our face back then, when we realized we were just two little doves trying to mend our hearts and fix our wings. No matter how cruel love was treating us, we were saved by each other in that corridor. We kept on flying.

And the thing is, I don’t laugh anymore. Not the way I used to laugh with you. Burdens were weightless back then, when we caught ourselves talking about things as silly as unwanted hairs and Panasonic mother-pluckers. No matter how challenging the struggle was to come close to being sane moms, we were comforted by each other’s craziness in that corridor. We kept on going.

And the thing is, I don’t try anymore. I don’t try to make new friends, to make things better, to make do with this broken heart of mine, to make fun of heartaches and betrayal stories, to make out what love  is all about, or to make sense of what life is throwing at my face. For peace’s sake, I don’t even try to make peace with my past, present or future!

These days I just make a point that those unwanted hairs are plucked, make believe that my voice sounds like an angel singing when I’m yelling, and make sure to chin up and think of you when the corridor seems too long to make pass, walk through, or stand in. And I do make time to stand on my knees and be alone with Him too.

Maybe when I am back in Malaysia next time you and I should go for a total makeover eh?