Lost and Found
On the night when they said that you weren’t ever coming back, I remember that my pillow was wet with broken promises and memories of your laughter.
I wonder if the tears you cried ever felt as bitter as this. I remember that when we had quarreled, and you had shouted at me, I shouted back things that made you cry. I’d feel a tight knot at the pit of my tummy whenever you pretend that everything is okay, and you muffle your sobs into your pillow at night, acting normal with puffy eyes over breakfast the next morning. And what’s worse is that I tried so hard to play the game with you.
When the silence of your cries grew too deafening, I’d cup my hands over my ears and lean deeper out of the window, and into the night sky, as though it could swallow me whole and leave me dangling like a shining star. The planes that flew by were always minute, dancing across the moon, kissing the stars. I’d stretch my hands out far and casted like an open net, wondering if I tried hard enough, the planes would fall nicely within my grasp, with the hopes and dreams of people sliding down the intricate carvings of my palm. I’d shut my eyes tight and shove my hand into my mouth, swallowing air and pretending that I had total control of my destiny, and that you weren’t crying in your room right then.
When I was seven, I took my first airplane ride. It was thrilling when the airplane took flight, and I could see the red lights dotting the runway, smiling at the thought that they could jolly well be the stars in the night sky. As we got further up enough to feel like I could touch the sky, I looked out of the window and stared hard at the cars as tiny as ants trailing the roads, wondering if there was anyone else staring back into the sky and capturing me into the base of her palm, whispering a tiny prayer of hope in one breath. The airplane ride wasn’t like I had expected. From down below, the seeming shooting star seemed like it could take you places, and once you were on board, you’d be so sure of where you wanted to go, and it’d make sure that you’d get to where you desired. But on board the shooting star, it seemed too big and full of people with worries and broken dreams. From that night on, the airplanes tinkling in the night sky lost their impact, and I stopped crying for a long while- because nobody can ever be sure of where they’re heading to.
You liked to collect spoons, and I never knew why. I didn’t ask either, and now I regret that. I used to sneer to myself that the shiny edges of the spoon really reflected the person you were. Of all the spoons in different shapes and sizes, you’d look warped staring into the spoon, with your nose too big or your chin too wide, just like how I’ve known you to be: imperfect.
I used to think that you were like water works, which I loved so much; but you always managed to stay out of reach when I needed a hug. I remember that we camped outside in the cold one night, huddling and watching the sprouts of water rise up, and down. They were purple and full of themselves, dazzling near, and then retreating far, laughing spitefully at us as we tried to grab hold of the perfect image we all wanted, and all we got was a handful of wet mist. You were like that mist, so confident, but all I could do was watch from afar. When you were near me, you crumpled into colourless liquid, all the beauty and arrogance fading as fast as the sunset. So you screamed at me, never thus becoming who you were around the rest, but only dragging the rest down in your sorrow, or so I thought. Turns out, people who you once admired never turn out as perfect as you think, up close, and you were one example, but I had never known. I think I took it out on you when the frustration rushed into my head as heavy as a ton of bricks, and I grew red in the face trying to overcome my disappointment.
But when I first heard that you had left us, the tears I felt trickling down my face tasted bitter, like the look of sadness on your face every time I shouted at you. The room smells of roasted almonds, bitter but full of colour and memories. The recollections I have of you are as early as this morning’s, when you bade me goodbye and I ignored you with that sullen look on my face. But most of the memories I have are black and white, because I feel like I do not have the right to own anything as happy as colours. The impulse I have to find you is like what I feel every day of my life, to rush out of the grilled metal gate and give you a hug of surprise from behind, hoping that you’d smile one last time, and this time, just for me. The gate of regret can never be unlocked now, and I will never know how it feels like to have cherished each moment down to the last bit, from the measurement of your waist, to the tinge of brown of your hair.
I know that we had our differences. While you loved spoons and grace, I loved semi darkness and puzzles. When you came in every night to dim the lights and whisper good night, I’d squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to be asleep. As you left on tip-toes, I’d have forgotten our quarrels and only remember the tinge of shampoo smell which you leave hanging in the air like an infectious disease that made my heart ache. I’d open my eyes again and find everything dark, but as my pupils dilated and I’d make out the silhouettes of everything in the room, I’d feel shivery and lonely, but glad that I could see everything and not one soul would ever be able to see the look on my face.
On my twelfth birthday, you gave me a piece of cardboard. I asked you what it was and you said that it was the base of a puzzle piece. You told me that you had removed all the puzzle pieces and drawn your expectations of me on each of the puzzle pieces. When I had accomplished something, she’d give me that relevant piece. Up till now, I’m sixteen, and that puzzle will never be completed.
Everything is sitting on my desk now, your puzzle pieces and the photos of you. But I’m too afraid to open that box with laces as complicated as you, because I am afraid of realizing the disappointment I was to you. But now, even as I am intoxicated with regret and hunger for your love, I can see you smiling, with the dimples on your cheek dancing in and out, and you are stroking my hair. The airplane flies past my window and you drift towards the stars hung like portraits against a navy-blue wall, waving your goodbye. As you board the plane made of purple shooting stars and shiny metal, I finally understand that you have found your way at last, unlike all of us, and I’d be selfish to catch you and slide the star down my palm.
So I let go, and blow the fairy dust away.
Death has solved the puzzle mystery of our lives intertwined, and now the memories are of orange and green like the viridity of grass.
