Mornings, musings, mom.
"You're here early every day," the man to the customer as he ladled his order onto the plate. "Well, I can't sleep," was the reply.
So I'm not the only one who comes down for breakfast because of insomnia.
This is the only fried bee hoon stall that actually gets a queue, and no wonder. There's something about its oily fare that's extra delicious. Maybe because it's extra oily. I don't know for sure, but I think this is the stall that my mom used to buy from. It tastes the same, and I remember. Most days, my mom would be long gone to work by the time I woke up to find the brown paper packet on the table with a note under it.
I've been thinking about my mom a lot the past couple of days, even when I was in Taipei. Little things would spark off little memories, bringing little pangs of regret and pain. I wonder if I sold the flat and moved away from Boon Lay if I would think of her as much. For some strange reason, the feelings seem more... solid, stronger, as if it hasn't been almost four years. Four years!
Walking home from the market, I saw a tree that was beautiful, its branches spreading up above me in a beautifully random, irregular way, forming a shape that seems not to follow any rules, yet owed everything to nature. And I thought to myself," This tree is beautiful, and yet it doesn't make me want to live. It doesn't make me love life. What would make me love life?
So I'm not the only one who comes down for breakfast because of insomnia.
This is the only fried bee hoon stall that actually gets a queue, and no wonder. There's something about its oily fare that's extra delicious. Maybe because it's extra oily. I don't know for sure, but I think this is the stall that my mom used to buy from. It tastes the same, and I remember. Most days, my mom would be long gone to work by the time I woke up to find the brown paper packet on the table with a note under it.
I've been thinking about my mom a lot the past couple of days, even when I was in Taipei. Little things would spark off little memories, bringing little pangs of regret and pain. I wonder if I sold the flat and moved away from Boon Lay if I would think of her as much. For some strange reason, the feelings seem more... solid, stronger, as if it hasn't been almost four years. Four years!
Walking home from the market, I saw a tree that was beautiful, its branches spreading up above me in a beautifully random, irregular way, forming a shape that seems not to follow any rules, yet owed everything to nature. And I thought to myself," This tree is beautiful, and yet it doesn't make me want to live. It doesn't make me love life. What would make me love life?