heaven odour

I wonder which of my strangers was the first to know, and to look at her belly in a different light. Who was the next to kiss her, secretly hoping for a smaller, sweeter version of her? Drugged days and trippy nights to come, hands both gentle on the swell and violent in the throat.

Unbreakable plate bordered blue with alphabets and soy sauce smothering every grain of rice. Five years old, too soon to know of the defects. Too soon to notice the wall standing in between the kindergartner and newborn, neither yet changed by the blood flowing through them.

Her first prayers were the absent nods to my chatter, water and soap running down my body along with her hand. Nagging to brush my teeth properly, after noticing the way I only bite down on the toothbrush in pretense. My words deposited down the drain from her ear, a tradition that remains alive.

Whose were the ballet dreams? Whose were the admiring of the long legs in pink stockings and hair forced into tight buns? The answer came eighteen years later, where the same dreams are now being put on a new granddaughter's head, while the daughter has grown into black jeans and uncombed, tangled hair.

Written letters, typed entries, none shown or spoken to her. Some effort, but reminiscent of the empty nods in the bathroom nearly two decades before. Down the same drain, with the innocence and blood shed from the womanhood and the wrists. 

But in the spotlight at sixteen, she noticed me for a while. Fumbling with the ribbon on my uniform with only a speech, the first words of mine she heeded. Maybe not a single one understood, maybe just the acknowledgement of her expectations I never reached. I know I'm not ladylike, but will you still accept me? She laughed, in tears, a hug that will not come again until the next Raya.

The kindergardener turned out to be defected, the newborn became damaged. We were comrades in the carvings on his guitar and the drawings inside my wardrobe. We had the father's beatings and the mother's disappointment in common, and that's where it stopped. 

For suddenly, he had her pride after a week in National Service. He has changed for the better, I'm so proud of him, but all I see in him are the trails of shit he leaves for her to clean. Then years later my maturity is cockiness to the same couple, You think you're so mature, buying a desk yourself? after a few months of my own full-time paycheck.

We used to share our shoes when I was a teenager, our feet the same size. But you know that has stopped, for she continues walking on in her flats and heels while I prance about in sneakers, sometimes barefoot. The one thing we had in common, and hers remain heaven to three while mine are in blisters and holey socks.

I've learned from your firstborn, dumping my plates by the sink and keeping my salaries to myself. If he can grow to be your favourite with his kingly behaviour and handicap, I will follow suit. I ignore the cold shoulders you give me for being like him, but I will deposit them into my safebox.

Continue treating him like a prince and my carbon copy your new princess. I will remember these pictures when you are old and begging for room in my own shelter. Where is your son, the one you treat like king? I'm sorry, my heaven is in somebody else's feet now.

Grudges, the word itself is sludge, sticking to my throat and hindering my windpipe. Horsehair lodged in my fucking throat, yet I keep it there like a pet. I feed it, ignoring the shape of a snake it is taking, putting its diet on hold so it can consume me whole. Now you have become the person I want to find me blossomed by hope or bloated by noose.