Little young Ying peered at her watch. Ten to twelve. She always believed time to be a thing of perspective.
The aroma of oven-fresh pineapple tarts waltzed their way towards her, mingling with the brazen Lunar New Year decorations before scurrying back, away from the sinister stench of engine gases. The bus had arrived.
It was never on time, but it was this time. Ten to twelve, the last time she saw her.
She watched passengers pour out from the bus, like tea.
“Ying!”
She was on her feet, a reflex to the voice. Knocking the wind out of herself as she dashed into Mummy’s arms, Ying giggled and her heart fizzled with pink bubbles. She felt the stabbing stares of nosey people.
“I’ve got the biggest prawns and freshest fish, let’s go make your favourite dish.”
Ying clutched onto Mummy’s boney hand decked in scars, remnants of the marriage that was never meant to be, as they journeyed home.
The world was hushed and only the wind tickled her ears.
Upon reaching the house, fear surged.
No, Ying thought. Mummy, he’ll hurt you again.
The door creaked open and Ying braced for the usual tornado of wolfish shouts and fist-on-skin explosions.
She was greeted by silence. Pleasant.
Daddy’s not home today. Mummy’s safe.
“We’re going to have the perfect time together.” Mummy’s smile glowed like a lantern in the dark hall and the clock behind her said ten to twelve.
Ying stared transfixed at the flirtatious flames as they danced and swayed while Mummy deftly tossed spices into the pot which exhaled with the familiar aroma of salted-fish curry. Cocooned in the warmth of the kitchen, she bathed herself in Mummy’s soft humming of new Lunar New Year songs.
Ying could stay forever in this moment.
Dinner was served with two plump bowls of rice. Ying devoured the dish while Mummy chuckled, picked rice off her cheeks and told her favourite folklore. Dragons, serpents and monkeys that talked. Faraway fireworks bloomed.
Mummy, it’s been four years. Daddy’s not here now, it’s safe to come home.
Mummy smiled and nodded. Perfect.
Ying looked up from her bowl and beamed, as if Mummy were just beside her. A bowl of rice sat before the empty chair next to her, untouched. When she was done, Ying did the dishes as Mummy once taught her to. She smiled and giggled as if praised by Mummy like when she was young. Her pills she took, with the eagerness of popping pineapple tarts into her mouth, holding another tablet towards thin air, as if offering it to Mummy.
Ying then grabbed the newspaper on the table and ran spiritedly towards the hall.
Look, Mummy, you’ve won the lottery!
She put it in Mummy’s hands. The newspaper swirled to the floor.
“Family abuse: Young girl loses father to prison and mother to suicide.”
It’s ten to twelve, Mummy, let’s go to bed. Ying snuggled into Mummy’s long-lost embrace, silencing the cacophonous stares at the bus interchange that surfaced in her mind. Distant fireworks blossomed.
Goodnight, Mummy, and stay.
photo credit: Sahil Pandita
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