#lingeringthoughts

However,

Sometimes pain is the chirping of birds at 6am, when the rain had slowly ceased, streaks of light seeping through every grey cloud, when you're in the kitchen watching your sunny side up sizzle in the pan, phone on the counter, the smell of coffee makes you reminisce about the time she had brought you an iced latte that one mundane afternoon.

Sometimes pain is the gentle breeze at the park on a Wednesday afternoon, the ice cream truck passing by as kids rush to get a scoop, you would look beside you eagerly, hands itching to grab the person beside you to come along, til the realization dawns upon you that theres no one there. Just the ghost of the person whose soul is now engraved at that very spot.

Sometimes pain is a person, walking beside you. Remember that street? Remember that time you would rush to surprise them, hands over their eyes as you jumped behind them? Remember those murmured words they would say, the ones where you pretend you didn't hear? The time they called you pretty, the one where they asked you about your day, the moment when your hands brushed past, touch lingering at the tips of your fingers?

That is nostalgia, a shallow joy of reminiscing the past.

It was evening when I was on the bus. I had finally picked myself up to go for a yoga lesson at the studio, something I hadn't done in over a month, and was on my way home. I remember feeling victorious, and extremely proud of myself for pushing through mental obstacles and getting where I was.

All these was going through my head when the back door to the bus opened, and up came an elderly man with a baby stroller, filled with bags of groceries. I found it strange at first, but had my confusions erased when he was joined later on, from the front of the bus, a pair of children and, I gathered, his wife. The makcik immediately tried to find spots for the little girl to stand, poles to grab hold on before the bus continued on its way. Finally, she carried her granddaughter on an empty seat not too far off. The little girl stayed quietly interested in the toy she held in her hand, a sort of mini treasure box, all purplish and princess-like, with its curves similar to what you'd see in cartoons full of pirates and their loots.

This family must have gone shopping together, ready to go home and break their fast, I thought to myself. My heart warmed.

Beside me, I saw the boy gesture to his grandmother that he'd like to go up the double-decked bus. Makcik gestured to her husband, pointing at the little girl sitting on her own, before following her grandson up those stairs.

From where I stood, I saw the little girl so focused on the treasure box she held in her hand. Her not wearing a mask showed me everything that went through her face. At first nonchalant, then came a pout, followed by a pair of wet eyes.

Immediately, the auntie sitting beside her could sense that something was wrong. She reached out a hand to pat her head, hoping to put her at ease. The little girl took one look at her, then ignored her.

Gesturing to the pakcik standing not too far off, still with the stroller, auntie signed to him, with fingers running down her face. A man standing not too far off waved at her, but to no avail. She was about to have a breakdown.

Finally, the auntie sitting beside her gave up her seat. The pakcik thanked her profusely before pulling his granddaughter to him, telling her that her datuk was here.

what’s gone, is gone.

cannot turn back. 

but it kept coming back.

it kept coming back.

how your fingers touches mine.

how your smile telling all will be fine. 

_agashi