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Vignettes On a Sunday
It is an ordinary Sunday.
~
When we leave the house for the market, there is a tart bite in the air. Dragonflies dance upon the air, darting over the obsidian lily pads that are our heads. There will be rain later, but for now, the weather is docile, perfect.
~
The tawny cat with amber eyes which stalks our area is missing: she has been for weeks. There are times when she’ll curl herself up by the stairs or sun herself on the grass or stare at me only to stalk away in feline suspicion (disdain?). The stairs are empty now, an unrelieved stretch of gray. The grass patch is green, unfettered. Incomplete.
~
The stores near the market are mostly vacant. We walk into Fairprice instead. The air-conditioned efficiency, coupled with economies of scale and substantial corporate funds, makes it hard for old-time provision store owners to compete. They mostly wind up their businesses or move away, victims to inventorying systems, value chains, point-of-sales efficiency, most of all, change.
~
A rotund woman laughs at me, jingling the coins in her open palm. Instinctively, I look down and count them. One twenty cent coin and a ten cent coin – thirty cents in total. I look at her in confusion. She laughs and jingles them again, this time pointing to a package of yellow noodles with her free hand. Puay kak, I tell her. Eighty cents. She laughs again and shows me her coins. Belatedly, I realize that she is asking for money, so that she can buy her packet of yellow noodles. I mentally wince – not just because she has to ask for money, but because I am without a farthing at the moment. Rather then have her believe I’m lying about not having money, I lie instead and fake a bewildered frown. Shrug and walk away, with triple spears of pity, guilt and embarrassment. That is the sort of person I am.
~
My mother walks into my room in the afternoon, aghast at its hurricane-swept look. She picks at my bags and peers into randomly strewn shopping bags. She yells at some of my unpractical purchases, scolds me for not hanging the four pictures I was itching to have two weeks ago, nags at the general untidiness. It is mortifying, and I tune her out with a stony look on my face. But I am my mother’s son and she knows, that I know she does and yet persist. Her voice escalates. I want to sigh, tell her that yes, I am tired of her yelling but no, I am not trying to drive her to her grave. But I hold my tongue, because I know she does it out of love. Against the silent barricades of parental love, one has little room for dissent.
~
A chaithimse an Domhnach.
~
It is an ordinary Sunday.
Filed under: Personal, Musings
~
When we leave the house for the market, there is a tart bite in the air. Dragonflies dance upon the air, darting over the obsidian lily pads that are our heads. There will be rain later, but for now, the weather is docile, perfect.
~
The tawny cat with amber eyes which stalks our area is missing: she has been for weeks. There are times when she’ll curl herself up by the stairs or sun herself on the grass or stare at me only to stalk away in feline suspicion (disdain?). The stairs are empty now, an unrelieved stretch of gray. The grass patch is green, unfettered. Incomplete.
~
The stores near the market are mostly vacant. We walk into Fairprice instead. The air-conditioned efficiency, coupled with economies of scale and substantial corporate funds, makes it hard for old-time provision store owners to compete. They mostly wind up their businesses or move away, victims to inventorying systems, value chains, point-of-sales efficiency, most of all, change.
~
A rotund woman laughs at me, jingling the coins in her open palm. Instinctively, I look down and count them. One twenty cent coin and a ten cent coin – thirty cents in total. I look at her in confusion. She laughs and jingles them again, this time pointing to a package of yellow noodles with her free hand. Puay kak, I tell her. Eighty cents. She laughs again and shows me her coins. Belatedly, I realize that she is asking for money, so that she can buy her packet of yellow noodles. I mentally wince – not just because she has to ask for money, but because I am without a farthing at the moment. Rather then have her believe I’m lying about not having money, I lie instead and fake a bewildered frown. Shrug and walk away, with triple spears of pity, guilt and embarrassment. That is the sort of person I am.
~
My mother walks into my room in the afternoon, aghast at its hurricane-swept look. She picks at my bags and peers into randomly strewn shopping bags. She yells at some of my unpractical purchases, scolds me for not hanging the four pictures I was itching to have two weeks ago, nags at the general untidiness. It is mortifying, and I tune her out with a stony look on my face. But I am my mother’s son and she knows, that I know she does and yet persist. Her voice escalates. I want to sigh, tell her that yes, I am tired of her yelling but no, I am not trying to drive her to her grave. But I hold my tongue, because I know she does it out of love. Against the silent barricades of parental love, one has little room for dissent.
~
A chaithimse an Domhnach.
~
It is an ordinary Sunday.
Filed under: Personal, Musings
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