“Mintalah. Maka Aku beri. Tapi Aku uji.”
“Ask. You shall be granted. But you shall be tested.”
I did. I was. And I am.
Posted in Sense | 1 Comment »
As you stroll along in life, you tend to stumble upon quotes, sentences and words clustered together that your memory just refuses to shed. Like these ones I picked up along the way when I was much younger. Sixteen, perhaps. (My! So many things happened when I was sixteen, eh!)
“Jarum emas, benang suasa,
dapatkah menjahit hatiku yang luka?”
“Sesungguhnya hidup ini…banyak soalan, kurang jawapan.”
So I try not to ask too many WHY questions these days. And I believe that there will never be an answer to the question, “How could you?” Afterall, it really is another WHY question, not HOW.
This is VEL, Kitreena’s teddy
who’s been with her right from Day One.
Kitreena still can’t sleep without her VEL.
And I still can’t sleep without mine.
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Banyak tanak perkara tanak,
Bertanak nasi biar berpayah;
Banyak anak perkara anak,
Anak siapa tiada berayah?
Banyak suka perkara suka,
Macam suka berinai merah;
Banyak luka perkara luka,
Apa luka tiada berdarah?
~Enida
December 10, 2003
6B Zauliya Street
Qurm Heights
Muscat, Oman
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I sing the song unsung
I read the word unwritten
I sail the ship unsunk
I travel the road untaken
I cry the tears unshed
I lead the life unled.
Unlove me !
June 8th, 1998.
UKM Bangi.
Found this old poem I wrote ten years ago right after I met Be for the first time. Love was in the air even then. But I turned and ran away, not wanting to breathe it. I was afraid.
.
Tonight, I am waiting to exhale.
.
.
.
Posted in Write On | Leave a Comment »
…Returning To His Wife
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you, your practical, your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission –
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound –
for the burying of her small red wound alive –
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call –
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
~ Anne Sexton.
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There’s a big dent on my car. So big, and yet nobody notices it. The last few weeks I have been debating whether to just sell the car, get a brand-spanking new one, or take it to the best repairman I know, spend as much as I need to… to make it look like what it used to. You know the saying? “If you look good, you feel good.” You do whatever you have to do to make you feel good because you actually do something about it.
.
.
And there is a huge hole on my favorite dress. So huge, and yet I have to point it out before anyone takes notice of it. I haven’t done anything about the hole as I am still thinking whether to get a new one made up exactly like it, or to get it fixed by a professional tailor. I know one brilliant designer who would do wonders. But he would cost me 5 if not 15 new dresses just to get the hole patched, mended, and concealed! I don’t know. I keep looking and staring at the hole these days. I think it’s getting bigger.
.
.
I also have a daughter – a sweet little button, I tell ya – just as beautiful as an angel, who has a scar on her forehead. It’s gigantic to me, though it can always be covered with her gorgeous curly locks. It’s obviously un-noticeable to those who don’t know the story behind the teasing, the chasing around with her big brother and the bumping of head almost through the kitchen wall on that sunny winter morning. So, naturally I would be thinking whether I should get that scar removed or whether I should get rid of that sweet little button altogether. I can’t keep a damaged good, can I?.
.
If choices in life were that simple, I would be just happy to press that RESET button and go back to June 8th, 1998 and say “No” to Be’s big hug, late tea at The Melting Pot and that one-week fling of my life. If.
.
.
God bless my soul, for I cannot keep on killing one lamb just to save another… and another, and another.
.
.
Or can I?
.
.
Posted in Hurt | 2 Comments »
“Good morning, sleepy headed Mommy!” Greeted my daughter one morning last week just before she went downstairs for breakfast and off to school. She’s getting more and more creative each day now with her greeting. While I…I stay with ‘Good morning Sunshine’.
After giving her a peck on each cheek and a sniff in her hair, I said my usual line. “Hmmm my favorite smell in the whole wide world. The smell of heaven!” And after the usual ‘biggest-hug-ever’ ritual, she would usually say her usual line, “You’re the bestest Mom ever, do you know that?”
But that particular morning, she had a question. “How come you know the smell of heaven, Mom? You’ve never been to heaven.”
Oh yes I have! Many many times with Daddy, and came back to earth alive! “Of course I know what heaven smells like,” I answered her as she was about to leave my bedroom.
“I have two of them right in my house.”
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.My Precious Ballerina Kitty and my Little Blue Pocoyo…
I was down on my knees again tonight, weeping and wishing that I would know how to tell you the things I don’t even know how to tell myself.
I was down on my knees again tonight, weeping and wishing that I would know how to tell you the things I don’t even know how to tell myself.
.
When the time comes, you will understand that love is not what you spend your whole life looking for. You don’t look for love. You just love.
.
In time, you will see that love is not those I-love-you’s you say when you know not how to say the I-am-sorry’s. Do justice to the truth. Tell it. It will set you free. Just be sorry when you don’t mean the love you say.
.
And someday you will love the way I love your Daddy. No reason, no season, and no prison.
.
So, my sweet little monchies…
While you were sleeping tonight, I loved your Daddy the only way I know how.
.
I let him go.
.
.
I love you, goodbye.
.
Posted in Hurt | 2 Comments »
We were just about home from Seoul Garden (formerly Seoul Bulgogi) when the car USB got to In My Daughter’s Eyes by Martina McBride again. Kitreena was just happy singing along through the first and second part. But towards half of the song, she went awkwardly quiet. I turned to look at her. She was covering her face with both hands, her body was shaking from trying so hard to contain herself from crying.
.
When I stretched my left arm to touch her right knee gently, she broke down. She was all in tears. I knew exactly what she was going to say. I just saw it three weeks ago. So I said exactly what I said three weeks ago. That it is okay to miss Daddy and that I am sure Daddy feels the same way. And that I would skip to the next song if the song upset her. And as exactly expected, she denied that it was the song that made her feel sad.
.
What’s not exactly like what happened three weeks ago was what she said tonight.
.
It’s not the song Mom! It’s Daddy!
What do you mean?
If Daddy doesn’t know when he’s coming back, I keep thinking he’s going to be there [in Russia] forever!
No, sweetie. He is coming back in October for a few days. I told you that.
But you don’t know when!
True. But he is coming back.
Does the airport know when Daddy’s airplane is landing here Mom?
I don’t think so, monch.
.
A long silence.
.
Mommy, does Daddy want to come back?
.
A longer silence.
.
I was just holding my breath wishing for some numbness. We got to the gate, Kitreena sat up and said, “Mommy, I keep thinking Daddy is going to be there forever.” While waiting for the gate to open, I looked at her and smiled, “No monchy, Daddy has a home here. He can’t stay there forever, can he?” Kitreena looked at me and smiled – convinced.
.
But I lied.
.
Kitreena, held by Daddy, when she was just six days old.
She’s turning six on November 10, this year.
.
Posted in Hurt, Monchies | 5 Comments »
Kitreena’s school organized a “Father’s Day Breakfast” recently – a morning when dads (or grandads or uncles) take their kids out for a RM10-buffet brekky at school. Kitreena came home and mentioned nothing about it. Well, not that Dad is around to take her out for breakfast anywhere anyway. Dad is in Russia busy working and more, to put food on the table for all of us and more. But Kitreena came home with this…specially dedicated to Dad:
“This is Dad and me going shopping to get you a dress, Mom.”
“This is the booty-ful dress Daddy and me bought for you Mommy.
It’s for your PROM.”
Prom?
Me oh my! Though I am nowhere near an agreement with her watching too much ‘High-School Musical 2’…I must say, the thought of my daughter getting me a booty-ful dress for my prom, made me feel sixteen again the whole afternoon. Now that I have this booty-ful dress to go to the prom in, who am I going to the prom with? Can somebody put the clock back, please?
I never did have a prom when I was sixteen.
Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment »
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