The Routine

SIX o’clock, time for the unchanging start of a new day.

She snuggles down deeper into the soft blankets, in an effort to postpone facing the present and enjoy the last few moments of repose. Soon she will have to get up and bury herself in the relentless cycle of another day. He has already left the cool sheets and her warm side some short endless moments ago and he now shuffles around the house with a dustcloth in his hand as he wipes the sideboard, dining table, bookrack… in a compulsive sequence that marks the beginning of his day. The scraping of his confused feet is not alone in offending the morning’s tranquility; it is punctuated by the jarring crash of things that his distracted fingers find difficult to hold. There is no need for such exertion, but this daily chore imparts a semblance of continuity and calms his nerves as he tries not to lose the tenuous hold on his steadily deteriorating memory.

Gone are the days of lazy lingering together in bed when they lay in each others arms, confident they would always be together heart and mind in whatever the future could hold. He seldom remembers they ever shared such a time, he can barely recognize the stenciled moment at hand and take comfort in its recurring pattern. She clings on to the memory of what once was as she grasps at the past that gives meaning to the journey they now have to undergo. It is a past they once shared but one she now finds herself revisiting increasingly alone.

The Bae Yong Joon Connection

When the letter arrived this afternoon, I looked at the tantalizingly plump envelope and wondered. What did it contain; after all it was too thick and heavy to be holding just a sheet of paper?

Unwilling and unable to wait any longer, I slit open the envelope, and this is what it enclosed 

 

And this

 

But most of all it held within it the love and thoughtfulness of my friend Fujino San who sent it all the way from Japan.

It has been wonderful how friends, who are not Bae Yong Joon fans themselves, often go out of their way to look for BYJ souvenirs just for me simply because they care (more stories about this on another occasion).

BYJ lives in our hearts, but right now I am wondering where to put these lovely stickers; stickers that will always remind me of Fujino San.

Any ideas?

Rain

It’s been raining all day.

The children’s laughter drowns the sound of the steady downpour and the voices of their anxious mothers urging them to return indoors. They run around, trying to catch each other and the elusive blobs of luscious rain. The fun is in the chase not the capture, and they are happy even when their little paper boats sink in the chocolate-brown water swirling down the lane.

***

On the main road, passers-by jump about trying to save themselves from the angry spray of revenge-seeking mud-spattered cars. The road is now like a sullen muddy river, and their efforts are mostly in vain. They hurry home to the comfort of dry clothes, a hot meal and, perhaps, a warm embrace.

***

A group of college friends, under the awning of the roadside teashop, discuss where to take off in the heady rain. Their mobikes are washed clean and gleaming and raring to challenge the unceasing pour. The ginger tea is tangy and sharp, adding flavour to their day. They take one last sip, kick their mobikes to life and zoom off into the exciting sheet of rain.

***

They sneak out of office and meet at the café round the bend, at the end of the street. Both have found an excuse to leave work early on this impatient and wet-with-anticipation day. They look at each other and smile, silently agreeing that words will have to wait. Hand in hand they walk into the sizzling rain.

***

Grey-black clouds hang like wet laundry stretched across the sky. There is smell of mould and heartache in the air. She sits by the window, looking at the world outside and the happy children prancing about, but she can only see big droplets of loneliness and pain. Her own children are now in another country, making a life in which she has no place. They do their duty, of course, calling up every week, without feeling and without fail. She has lived for this weekly charade, for the last few years after her husband passed away. But she will not burden herself or her children any more. The telephone is ringing, yet she gets up ignoring the piercing sound in her ears and the stabbing ache in her knees, and walks out to join the children dancing in the rain.

_________________________________________________