Death doesn’t visit often, but this time he sneaked up on us on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
It was a surprise visit that was due but came too soon.
What kind of friends do I make when I travel solo?
Good ones. Real ones. Beautiful ones.
“Can I take a photo with you?”
Her bright, young eyes, full of enthusiasm and wonder, looked into my jaded ones. I remember having eyes filled with sunshine like hers. Now they’re just tired and disenchanted; tired of travelling and disenchanted at the phlegm-spitting, queue-cutting, rude, and conflicting country that I am finally leaving.
When I was a young girl, I’d catch moments of mom getting lost in her own thoughts. Sometimes while she drank her coffee or methodically ate her dinner, her eyebrows would scrunch up to form a little hill between her eyes. I could see the gears turning in her head; she drifts off into the distance.
Throw your insecurities out the window. It is not weird to go to a gig, or a concert, or a music festival alone.
Can you believe that after seven months since my return to you, people are still asking me why I came back? Just last week at breakfast an auntie asked me “Why don’t you continue working there? Malaysia economy and politic is so bad now, stay in New Zealand better.”
I love my dad, but I don’t trust him.
Dad told mom I was crying like a baby when it happened. He was right, I was bawling like the biggest 23-year-old baby in the world.
If there is one thing I want to humble brag about, it’s this.
Every morning while I get ready for work, I would see my Ah Ma sitting in the rattan chair at our front porch, enjoying the early morning wind. Her eyes stare blankly at the moving traffic; her mind replaying the days of her youth.