just love with no place to go [[object permanence < object constancy]]
a short list of objects that release the memories of my maternal grandparents like a dam during a drought.
In the morning, I brushed my teeth and then my tongue until I gagged. I catch myself in the mirror with my tongue out.
Tongue
You were stern as it was necessary with a brood of six of us running about. But as we got older, you begin to shed the exterior layers, or rather, they were coming off by themselves with some kind of assured ease. In the car, my cousin Ana was showing me how to curl the side of my tongue upwards and stick it out forming this wormy and wet O. I tried several times but only managing to curl my tongue inwards into a strange fold as though it had been lobbed off in half. Throughout this boisterous exchange, you sat motionless beside me, looking out of the car window. I half expected a reprimand when I saw your head turn towards us and we, from habit, immediately quiet ourselves down. Instead you turned in triumph, your pink tongue out in a perfect circle, stifling a laugh.
That day was the only time I saw you as a carefree little girl
The pillow case had a giant hole at the side and every night it gets a little bigger. I’m struggling to put the thread through the needle; wetting its tip and twirling it between my index finger and thumb.
Needle and thread
You’d sit by the brightest part of the house, near the door of our living room. The door of course was wide open. In a pile beside you were our torn things, clothes with holes, broken zippers and missing buttons. You’d always do this on your second last day here before you headed back to JB. I never got to ask was it because you were saving the best for last, and this was something you thoroughly enjoyed or was it something you were naturally good at and had no other choice but to do it for the rest of us even though you dread it with all your heart. I watched you unclasp the circular marooned box and pick out a needle and thread. In one motion you’d slip the thread into the needle’s eye. Each time, I sat across you and watched your every step and you’d allowed it by pretending I was not there. This time around however you’d call out to me to sit beside you. My red striped pyjama pants needed alterations because it was too long and the bottom swept the floor making me trip if I was not careful. You had placed the needle into the spongey part of its container, the one at the top of the cover. Carefully you had folded the edge of my pants and pressed it down, pulling the thread to its desired length and with a click of your teeth, tearing it from the spool. You did all of it wordlessly. As you pierced the needle into my pants, you showed me a loop, by bringing the needle in before pulling it through so that it would be a dead knot. Macam gini boleh tahan lama, it will last longer you told me as I watched you do it a few more times. You handed me the pants after and told me to try as you watched me, your glasses on the bridge of your nose. Carefully I tried the dead loop, needle in, needle out, loop and pull. Ah there you go, you’d say. Next time you can do this by yourself. Senang kan? Easy right, you said encouragingly with the warmest smile. As the thread grew shorter, I handed the pants back to you and you showed me how to keep the lines straight and press it down with as much weight to hold it all in place.
I had used the same sewing box for a project on memories that lives on in objects left behind a few years back. Inside it was a passport photograph of my cousin Ana in bubble wrap, some rubber, buttons, plenty of thread in different colours, needles in all sizes, a box of cigarettes that he used to smoke half open and unfinished. The smell, his smell would waft out of that box each time I had to fix some broken thing. During the project, I had moved the objects around so much that it morphed into something lesser, something other. I cried as I pressed my face into that box breathing in deeply trying to retain something of him as everything slips into nothing and it was too late. All I have left is the dead knot, and the vividness of the day he taught me how to fix the broken things and make them last longer.
Loose strands of thread in my hand. I opened the cabinet below the sink to take out a new piece of trash bag. My batu lesung takes up a space in the corner, all dusty from lack of use. I prefer the hand chopper when I’m doing my cooking as it takes lesser time and effort.
Batu Lesung / Mortar and Pestle
You spent most of the hours of the day on the kitchen floor, preferring that over the table. In front of you were all the ingredients; chilli, garlic, belacan, onion, shallot. You prefer to make everything from scratch, even the paste and it would take you hours to prepare the day’s meals. Sometimes you’d take the leftovers from the previous meal and make something else for breakfast. A fat french loaf fried with yesterday’s rendang. Sambal tumis telur with fresh jemput-jemput ikan bilis. Nasi goreng. I’d remember your cooking utensils, always the same ones. A small paring knife you’d use for almost everything, a slightly larger one, a bright blue basin usually for the marinated fishes or meats, a pair of scissors and your batu lesung, slightly slanted atop an old batik cloth.
You show me the different ways to cut a chilli, small and round for the heat usually right before you pound them into paste. For omelettes or garnishes, cut the chilli diagonally, longer in length and make sure to remove the seeds. I’d sit in front of you with the pestle in my small hands as you put in the chilli, the garlic and then the shallots. The onions are always done separately. Pound and press it against the mortar almost in a forward circular motion. Pound and press, pound and press, some steady rhythm. My small hands growing tired fast. You’d leave me to it as you’d prepare the rest of the ingredients, the sizzle of the fish hitting the pan, the rice cooker gurgling and the wafts of fresh cooked rice in the air, my stomach grumbling. My hands kept going, determined to finish this important task.
You’d add salt and tarmarind that was soaking in the hot water and stir it with the pestle. Everything’s a little wet, the smell punctuating my nose sharply. I watched the ingredients disappear in front of me, more sounds and smells creating some cavernous place in my gut. You place a dollop of the paste onto your palm, right above the wrist, a small dance and taste it. Is it ok you think? And I shrugged my shoulders. It tastes like brightness, a vivid kiss. After we finished, you’d put the mortar and pestle aside. And then it was lunch on that table. You’d scoop a small portion of rice into the mortar and scraped a spoon around the sides. This is just for me, you’d tell me. Only for married women. It’s bad luck for unmarried young ladies to eat this. I watched satisfaction unfurling from your face. You’d repeat this everyday, a prayer for your loved ones.
I crossed the overhead bridge, pushing the pram with my right elbow. I caught sight of an old man on a mobility scooter but it was that familiar square jawline that struck me first. He was halfway through a Cornetto ice cream, oblivious to my staring.
Cornetto ice-cream
You brought me and my sister to the convenience store located at the opposite block. How we got out of the house was a giant blur. My mother was convincing my father not to divorce her over speaker phone. It got really ugly. Without saying a word, you paid for three cones of Cornetto ice-cream, handed one to me and then one to my sister. We stood by the curb eating in silence. I remember placing the end of the cone in my mouth, letting it melt from the burning shock of my body as I pressed down my hot tears. We took our time, this tender moment, a salve for a wound which I have yet to comprehend the depths of its pain and severity. But you knew and there we were, wordlessly eating Cornetto ice-cream by the curb. Your square jawline was forcing a smile as you caught my gaze. You gave me your end of the cone and pat me gently on my back.
Each time I see a Cornetto ice-cream in the freezer of a supermarket or some random shop, this moment jumps out. When I miss him, I’ll get a Cornetto ice cream and eat it in silence.
“Ah saya nak asam pedas, pucuk ubi, kuah lebih lepastu bagi telur asin satu….
Telur Asin / Salted Egg
Your small knife made a crack as it pierced into the white shell. More cracks as you pushed the knife towards your palm. In front of me was a plate of rice straight from the cooker. It was still steaming hot. You showed the halves to me, the shells were sharp little triangles hanging at its edges. This is how you do it, you said as you brought my plate closer to you. Carefully you took a little teaspoon and scrapped the edges, the white part of the egg forming little ribbons and place it on my plate. Putting the egg aside, you pressed the egg white into the rice with the back of the same spoon, once, twice and you push it down, rice and egg imperceptible. You repeat this a few more times before saying almost excitedly ah, makan. I gently touched the rice to check if it was still too hot and scoop a small amount into my hand and then into my mouth. It was creamy, a soft sigh and then salty, a tongue catching tears. Sedap tak? you asked me still scooping more of the white ribbons onto my plate. I took another amount of rice, a bigger portion and half nodding to your question. My eyes caught the bright orange centre, and then as though on cue, you scooped half of it onto my plate and the other half onto yours. Gaul, you said as my little fingers clumsily mix everything as best as a five year old could. Ah ni sikit ajer, jangan banyak sangat. Not too much you told me. Again I took a small portion into my mouth, and in unison as though making a toast, you did the same. This time the sea and bodies pressed against crashing waves. Our eyes bright as marbles. Ni nenek punya favourite. Tak boleh makan banyak-banyak.
When I have telur asin, I think of her in this moment at the table with the white doilies and the hard plastic cover over it, making my thighs hot, and all my first foods, telur asin, ikan kering, sambal belacan, lauk nangka, otak-otak, telur burung, assam pedas, masak rempah, pucuk ubi, her eyes shine onto mine, illuminated kitchen, full bellies.
Belly
You let me lie on your belly, my right ear pressed close to its centre, right above your belly button, listening to its rumbling echoes. This was after you had me walk with all my 7-year-old body weight on your back several times like a little game. I’m a bridge and there are crocodiles, watch out as you gently move your body left and right to throw off my balance. Sometimes I’d fall off and hurry back on. Your belly however was not a game but some comforting thing we shared; you lying on the sofa, head propped up watching some movie on VHS and I, head tilted sideways, eyes closed melting into this soft flesh, until either one of us falls asleep.
While walking to the train station, I caught a waft of that sweet flowery fragrance. Pink roses plastered on an off-white container with ridges all around it. Enchanteur.
Enchanteur Romantic Perfumed Talc
The moment you wake up from your nap, you’d apply copious amounts of this specific perfumed talc to your face and on your body. The smell is sharply sweet and the powder smokes up your room momentarily. I hated the smell but you’d always insist. You’d sit on the edge of the bed and I’d sit in front of you, my head resting on your knees. You’d apply a bit around the bottom of my eyelids and spread it across my sweaty cheeks and then down my nose, as though you were contouring my face. Ah kan wangi, sedap, putih. Then as usual, you’d say I reminded you of Sharifah Aini, a Malaysian pop star from the 80s/90s. I hated this but you do it anyway. Kan macam Sharipah, you’d exclaimed as you even out the powder. I could smell your breath as you lean in closer to make sure you didn’t miss a spot. Your musky warm breath, like the sea air during low-tide from a distance. I’d prefer the smell of your breath than the sharpness of the powder, breathing in as deep as I can.
Sometimes during low-tide, I crouched in a squat and close my eyes. On hot days, when the breeze is at the right temperature, I try to trick myself by breathing in deep but the air bears no fingers to trace my face, no teasing ways, just emptiness, kosong.
As I got off the train I pass a taxi stand and hear a door slammed shut.
Taxi
I fetched you from the hospital after your week long stay. You had lost a lot of weight but was still able to walk steadily towards the taxi stand. A man got out from the taxi before we boarded, slamming the door behind him. He stopped to stare at me blatantly, up and down and then up again and said “Ah Gua” so vehemently, I flinched from his words. I was wearing my hair short. When you fell terribly ill, I too lost a lot of weight worrying about you. I guessed that the man mistook me for a trans person, became confused and then repulsed and decided to lash out. You did not accept any of this, and in a rush, your arm brushed against me and shoved the man’s shoulder. A string of Hokkien curses spilled from your lips in brazen shouts, as the man grew small, apologising profusely to you and then to me and then to you again. It all happened so fast. He even opened the door for us before leaving the scene.
We sat in the taxi quietly all the way home. No one had stand up for me in that manner before, a kind of protection so disarming I wanted to scream. The week you were admitted for emergency surgery we were told you had Stage Four stomach cancer and although the tumour was operable, you may not be able to survive without further treatment. I had to force you to go to the hospital when you were vomiting bile and you stubbornly refused. We had no choice but to trick you into the operation. The first day after waking up, you pulled at your tubes and confronted me about our decision, you having no say at all to it. It was necessary I had said, an emergency. After that first day, you revert back to your warm self, although withdrawn and here in this moment in the taxi, I wanted to scream, let us protect you now or maybe, I cannot protect you from this or maybe, I might lose you anytime now and I cannot stop it. Maybe you knew too, that your time as our grounding force, in our lives was running out.
My legs felt tired from all the walking. I took off my shoes but leave my socks on. I put my feet up.
Feet
I memorise you feet, the callous parts of your soles, your legs, the blue veins running at the back of them, which parts had lumps of biji angin. Each time I come to visit, you’d swing your legs at me affectionately. I would grab the green ointment on your bedside table and start massaging them, the left one first and then the right. Near the inner part of your ankle on your right foot was a little pink lump. You would remind me to avoid it because even the slightest touch can cause pain to shoot right up and all over your body. Sedap dek, you’d say as you kick up your feet a little when you sense I was about to finish. Sikit lagi, dah lama tak urut. A little bit more, it’s been a while since the last one. As I massage you, you’d humour me with all sorts of stories, stories of you as a wife, as a mother, as a girl and as a child of a divorced family. No one knows how hard it is more than me, you’d say trying to get me to open up to you. But I didn’t want you to worry and I always tell you it’s getting better than the last time I was here. You knew I was lying. But it was a half lie because here with you, I can only feel joy of the purest kind.
If there was something I want to relive at least once, it would be this exchanges, my hands on her legs, and feet, the rest of the world dissolving all around us. My safest place, my safest moment.
Jamie Anderson said, “Grief, I've learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All of that unspent love gathers in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in the hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.
In the plain unfurling of the day, I remember them, always. These objects are custodians of memories they have left behind and although they are just soft echoes, interchangeable and muted, the constancy of my grandparents love never left me. Some grief are never meant to leave the body, but this love has no place to go because it remains where it is always meant to be, continuously giving until the end of time.
Until next time my loves. Hold you loved ones closer, hydrate, ressociate and stay in love.