however much we have suffered, then last Friday has wiped out my universal credit.
If the good things of these two weeks are to be paid back with the vengance in the week after, then, I will confess that I am afraid.
I have much faith that that is not how the universe works though, and the original lime plant which towers both of us is a testament to that.
Among the bushes, one of the plants the height of our waist is ours, the ones we left without looking back upon for the past seven months.
I shiver at the thought of the mosquitoes; writing both for and to you. I’m not sure what you think of online lettering.
Mr T might laugh, Mr K would give us one of his patented looks, for they would be together, walking to tea and past the usual table when I suddenly ask you something out of the blue moon.
Those are memories that have nestled their way into my diary, I do not know what to make of them when they explode outwards in an outpouring of love so severe I could call grief.
So next year, pray, do let us find Mr P and Dr H first, since the coincidences will not align in probability to give me a Friday free day.
Unless on the off chance that you get a Friday free day and we return in my recess week , of course I would take that chance too.
The thought of returning is one that leaves me a little speechless, a thought that reminds us of not only where we have come from, but what we have finished.
Leaving a bubble of isolation, still, the worlds we are in though worlds apart, have floated further from the ground. That thought leaves me in apprehension and I do not quite know what to make of it.
In between your writing papers and my writing memos:
I’m not sure if what Mr T highlights is honesty or cruelty. Nevertheless, now that we have graduated, it’s nice to see the roundness of his gentleness.
Even in that laugh of his, the kind of gentleness they try not to show when we were fully in their hands.
wherefore art thou…
Who would be able to explain why a grinning bobcat grinned?
Besides, I told Ah Jie only the truth before me;
that the goodness of your heart permeates from inside,
such that your radiance is a homing beacon.
Smile gently, my lady,
all will be well.
“You do not have to be good,”
says the poem pinned to the corkboard behind her chair,
blue and not black as I mis-saw.
Next year, let us hope that we will be able to enter the room:
fluttering as butterflies do,
transient as flowers but as loved.