Opus

December in the city

My childhood is not mine.
It's someone else's. Carelessly recalled, in
moments of vague absurdity, tinted red
and gold and green, all lurid shades from roadside stalls
at the train station. It was cheap,
it was all my parents could afford then.
They speak of hard times, of not being able
to buy enough toys, of having to compromise on
baby-food. The ones they showed on the television,
what a baby absolutely needs, to be a baby in
the late-capitalist world.

It does not matter to me. My childhood
is my grandmother's house. Lolipops
that you could see through. What if the world was
actually a bright watery orange?
My childhood was my favourite doll, Somi,
of the yellow dress and yellow hair and beautiful
blue eyes that fluttered. Somi was very
vain. I didn't like it when she gave herself airs.
But still I loved her, as only a child could love.

My childhood was black and white.
I had shoes that made sounds as I walked
with one hand in my uncle's, one in my aunt's,
and a packet of Gems if I made it around the
whole block on my feet. Four in one packet,
One for me, one for aunt, one for uncle
and one I'd take home for grandmother.
But it was nice to be carried home, sometimes,
aunt's face was soft, she smelt of the talcum
powder she used.

My childhood was when all I knew
of happiness was splashing into puddles, Somi,
father coming home, and grandfather's rhymes.
Grandfather wouldn't let them cut my hair.
He had a funny name, and he's the best friend
that I ever had.
There was a pillow that was as big
as my mother. I knew I would be big like her
someday. I can't remember if I longed for it
or whether it made me sad.

Childhood was the white teddy bear I
got for my birthday. It was some years later,
father named it Johnny, and I was disappointed
that it would be a boy. But Johnny became a good friend.
Like the girl in the downstairs flat, who I now think
was my first love. She had beautiful hands. Her
grandmother reminded me of mine.

Childhood was the on the ferris wheel.
My brother's hand in mine, small, and trusting.
He was scared, as only a child could be. The wind
in our ears, the city underneath, waving at mother
every time we passed her by.

My brother is taller than me now.
He wears heavy glasses like me
and doesn't care for ferris wheels any more.
He says they are boring, just going
around in a circle for five minutes
for fifty bucks, what a waste. I agree with him.
We don't hold hands anymore and we are running
out of things to talk about.

My aunt is getting old. Her voice is heavier,
her son divorced, her laugh forced.
She doesn't get along with my mother,
and when she asks me to visit her, she
doesn't really mean it.
Grandfather is disappointed in me, he
wanted me to become a doctor like my
father, and I didn't. I call him sometimes,
we try to breach over the silence
that stretches between us like an void, both longing
for something to forgive.
Grandmother got the cancer
and asked to be dead because she couldn't
take the pain anymore.