the seventh month
It's 2 days till I move, and for some reason I feel oddly nostalgic. I think about the things I won't experience. Over dinner two nights earlier I asked my mother about her childhood. Catching spiders. Climbing trees. Celebrating my grandfather's birthday by blocking off the entire main street, having two 歌台 performances, wearing nice dresses. Killing chickens and pigs every Chinese New Year, how 20 cents could buy a bowl of Laksa, a drink and a cheap dessert. How Cornettos costed 35 cents. How she could hear the patter of rain on the zinc roof, how she could see the stars at night.
Sometimes I look at a place and try to imagine it 50 years ago. Was this building here? Was the asphalt road just gravel? I get a little thrown by the differences. After all, it's just all in my head.
Then I think about my own life. There was that one summer I spent in Fremont, watching Out of the Box as I ran my fingers over the grey carpet underneath me. There are the little snippets I recall in my old house, the time I set up a tent in my room and slept inside once as a sorry alternative for camping. I think about me and my friends.
There are a lot of things I don't know. I just... don't know.
Sometimes I look at a place and try to imagine it 50 years ago. Was this building here? Was the asphalt road just gravel? I get a little thrown by the differences. After all, it's just all in my head.
Then I think about my own life. There was that one summer I spent in Fremont, watching Out of the Box as I ran my fingers over the grey carpet underneath me. There are the little snippets I recall in my old house, the time I set up a tent in my room and slept inside once as a sorry alternative for camping. I think about me and my friends.
There are a lot of things I don't know. I just... don't know.