Memories

Written by: D S Dhanvin (24-E4), Chan Kar Teng (24-I2), Wong Yong Bo (24-E1)

Designed by: D S Dhanvin (24-E4), Lee Zi Kai, Xavier (24-O2)

Eulogy

The air is still and sombre. A man(or two?)

coughs loudly, disturbing the silence but, is hushed soon

by relatives. They wait for the final address.

Standing stiffly at a lectern, I glance at the

crowd. Tears run down some cheeks, on mine

is baby powder. The long speech begins and

i disappear. He takes over instead.

I was not interested in speaking. The Coffin-side portrait

had sickened me. The elegant and kind

visage was nothing like the corpse inside.

It hid from others who I saw truly, whose

eyes averted from me but were enraptured 

by him instead.

He finishes with a hope that we will not forget him.

I simply cannot.

Then he disappears;

Only I remain;

To hear condolences and adulations

while he goes off anxious about the next meeting

to attend, while I stay to finish 

the paperwork.

How ironic,

The beloved can’t remember.

-  D S Dhanvin

Tai Ma’s Chicken Rice

the chicken rice is too greasy—

it tastes good, but feels unhealthy.

i don’t know how she cooked it—

i don’t ask (i don’t know how to), i just eat.

the chicken is too bloody.

it’s slimy and it feels dirty,

i take one bite and i spit it out:

i dump it all on my mother’s plate.

the cucumbers are too many.

they’re old, unfresh, unevenly cut.

some are prettier, riper— they’re given

to the youngest of the bunch.

it was always this or that—

too little, too much. never

just nice, never

just chicken rice.

i have forgotten its taste now—

i have forgotten its warmth.

i’m not sure i ever even knew it.

– Kar Teng

Before We Go

I was hanging our wet clothes in the laundry area.  I’m not sure why I was, honestly — after all, I had bigger problems today. Storm clouds gathered yonder, burying this little corner of the world.

Looking down at the clothes I had just washed, it was a surprisingly veritable mix in the pail — despite there only being 2 people they belonged to. There were my many overwhelmingly black, gloomy graphic tees, some shirts plainly darker in colour or just jet black, and similarly dark jeans and pants. Then, there was my younger brother’s relatively brighter and more vibrant clothing; there was a cotton maroon sweater with white stripes twisting and running down the arm sleeves; a plain white wool sweater; cerulean blue loose-fit and baggy jeans in the pail. 

Now that I think about it, the washing machine is right next to the laundry-drying area in our HDB — why didn’t I just grab those clothes, and hang them straight that day?

Whilst swimming in my thoughts, my brother silently approached me from behind, and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Whatcha doin’?” he said smugly.  I turned my head silently to look at him. He normally did that to surprise or scare me, though it never worked once. He went on, “Why are you just standin’ her- why did you wash my clothes?”

I was kind of dumbfounded. What does he mean ‘why did you wash my clothes’? 

“The laundry was piling up, so I just collected yours and washed them too.” I thought this would get him to leave it be, but he continued, “Why? Don’t waste money or water on me, I might not need them in a week’s time. Plus, I can just wear what I have. Don’t you have like to handle the funera…” A thought had resurfaced. It was about 51 weeks back — I knew it had to be 51 weeks. We were in the doctor’s office, in the hospital. It was August; a week after your birthday. We had had our suspicions — and you had been tired, coughing, losing weight — and they were confirmed when the doctor said to us, to you, “I’m so sorry, you have cancer; it’s terminal.”

“You have a year.”...

He might not be here in a week.

You might not be here in a week.

“... Also it’s raining; why are you trying to hang them now? Are you listening?” My brother snapped me back into reality, and I took a good look at him: He looked pale — well, even before the diagnosis he was pale, just a more deathly shade now. He was wearing his blue and white striped pyjamas (we always joked that he looked like he was a 58-year-old man from Britain), as well as a confused and frustrated expression. “It’s fine, I’ll hang them inside,” I comforted him dryly. It would take much longer for the clothes to dry, but today had been an exhausting day for me, handling all the post-mortem stuff for him. 

He looked at me even more confused, but simply walked away and back into the living room, laid down on the red sofa, and played around with his phone. Following him, I started putting the clothes on hangers to dry around the house — the clothing rack we had, the wall-mounted table in the study corner, the chairs — then something caught my eye: A receipt. It was a bakery’s receipt; one for an unreasonably cheap and nice chocolate cake. I got it from one nearby while he was asleep for the last 14 hours.

“Hey! I just remembered; I bought you a cake like always. Wanna eat?” I told him. However, he looked more confused and frustrated if anything. “Huh!? You spent more money on me?” he replied, bewildered.

“Yeah, I did…?” “Wh- never mind, save it. Take an umbrella, walk over and return it. Now-” He started coughing violently while commanding me. I rushed over to hold him, hastily putting the one clothes hanger I held on the chair. “W-W-Wa-ter…” 

I sprinted; to the kitchen and back, handing him water to gulp down, while he inhaled “Why would I? It’s your birthday, isn’t it? Don’t you like birthday cakes?” His face twisted and transfigured into one of blatant and complete confusion. “Because it's your money?!? Vanessa! I thought I told you to not spend too much beyond just food and water!” he shot back. I stood there silently, trying to understand what he wanted what he said or just anything at this point. I’m sure I gave him the blankest and most ‘what?’ stare, since he took notice of that.

“I. AM. DYING. Vanessa! Maybe in a week or more, I’ll BE GONE! Why am I the only one trying to save your money?! You should be doing that! You already spent so much on bills alone! And now a cake for me?" He started coughing again, and somehow took another gulp of water; I was surprised there was still water left in that cup, but I slowly felt more and more annoyed. “THINK FOR YOUR FUTURE, Vanessa! You still haven’t fully paid for those chemo treatments that I got, you will have to pay for my funeral and for my casket, you also haven’t paid the student loans from the degree you never finished, all while your newspaper job you still have pays you garbage! And then there’s your…” He chided, continuing.

The storm, the clouds; they had started pouring down; a never-ending bucket of water had toppled. 

I kept listening to him berate me for buying a cake for him. Between the scolding and his coughing, something itched me — an unbearably irritating itch beneath the skin that seared into me.  “...you’ve also been having too much leave from your job, even I think your boss will fir- ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME!?” 

Honestly, not even I’m sure what happened next. I just blurted out, “I AM!” He went silent.

“I am thinking about my future!” Tears were streaking down my cheeks, but the inconvenient breathing and salty drops barely stopped me from going on. “I know in the future; that if I don’t do this, and I just pretend you’re not here, I will think back day after day after day AFTER DAY at how I just completely ignored you. Because you were DYING.” The crematorium introduced, and emulsified rain and fire.

“Those good-for-nothing idiots for parents ABANDONED US, ABANDONED YOU; WHEN YOU WERE 10, AND-” “WHEN I WAS 19! So, I took care of you, for all these 5 years, ON MY OWN, BECAUSE I WILL NOT BE LIKE THEM!-” “I KEEP GETTING UNPAID LEAVE, NOT BECAUSE I’M LAZY OR TOO GOOD FOR IT, IT’S SO-” “I, ME; I CAN ATTEND TO YOU, EVEN THOUGH I HAVE A JOB, EVEN THOUGH I HAVE WORK-”

“AND I DO THIS ONLY BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO ENJOY THE LAST YEAR OF YOUR LIFE…

BECAUSE YOU’RE THE ONLY REAL FAMILY I HAVE LEFT!...”

I waited a while; intent on calming down somewhat. However, it was to no avail, of course. My crying — breakdown — had reached its climax. I wasn’t even sure if I was coherent, but I didn’t care. “So, please, let’s just have the cake…even if it’s just for today…your one last birthday…” I didn’t know how he reacted, or what he said, because I was too busy sobbing, and I used my hands to cover my face. It went on like this for quite a while, until I felt a 3rd hand over both of mine. Until I stopped covering my face and opened my eyes.

“Okay, sure, let’s have the cake then,” he said, looking at me with such a subtle pained, but happy and understanding smile, almost the countenance he always used to have. It was so calming. I wish I could have had that sort of look; I wish I could be like that.

He guided me to sit down, and we sat in silence after that. The rain was stopping, and the sky became clear again. A stiffness permeated the house. In spite of that, we started chatting, it was trivial, daily stuff we spoke of, but I liked that, it’d been so long since I had that type of conversation with anyone, with him. We had the birthday cake after that, and it tasted way too sweet. Anyway, that was the end of today, August 11th.

After this, we spent as much time with each other as possible. We couldn’t go out that much, you slowly got weaker day by day after all, but still, we did everything from talking more and more to playing more games and eating more…you seemed as happy as you used to be. It was short-lived. However, you and I probably couldn’t have asked for better, or more.

You died about 2 and a half weeks after that day; so funnily enough, you did end up needing those washed clothes, dummy. I didn't exactly cry much at the funeral, or when your monitor flatlined, but I think you wouldn’t have wanted me to cry too much either.

It’s now been about 4 months after you died; and hey, I’m finally finishing that English degree! I managed to somehow get a better job, even more impressive is that I’m balancing the job and university. I hope you’re happy for me, wherever you are…

… You were such a joy; you even convinced me to throw out all those sad goth clothes and get new ones like yours, and I donated yours to a nearby charity, along with a lot of your assets and savings — as you requested… even though I didn’t want to…

…and… I know you got mad at me for this, and you’ll definitely get madder since you’re gone for good. Just know, I’ll still be buying a birthday cake every August 11th, for at least a little while longer. Before…we go.

Signing off, 

December 11th.

Written by: Wong Yong Bo