xv.
THE POSTWOMAN
December 2023. A little life, they say. Dare this one scoff at us? It seems so, and my apologies. I've founded the both of us long apologies, in lieu of a sanctuary, that I recite every night after you are sound asleep.
You won't be hearing my words, and neither do I. Because just how could you, let alone make you? I know this room is getting colder and colder as I wait—though I know so well it must be even harder to have no choice but to still. To lay down, forced to hush. Dreamless nights' labourer. In our thin lives we're offered this, as if to be merciful. As if I am to be thanked, "Your resiliency's gotten you here—be proud." Oh, I would want to be proud. Help me be.
The opening and closing of my mouth and my breathing: the very things on the cusp of a judgement, perhaps one that is not good enough. Only those, because I am afraid that if I unloose more of them, even some of them, you won't hear them but they will hear you—they ought to. I had thought I was incapable of worrying about showing you how vulnerable I was, or am, of course, just like any others. There'd always be a fright at the end of my deeds, whether they were for you or for others. You and I are in this room—I don't want this to be us. The walls and chairs and windows around us, and the roof above: Either they are looking down on us and see nothing but a crying shame, or have the two of us close and think of sympathy—none of which I could tell.
Or, of course, they do not think and feel at all, and so for a second I was an apology, for another I am a beggar. I am my own witness of my begging, wishing even the lifeless for a chance, as though chance is something like a note inside an opened fortune cookie that somehow made its way to you after having been thrown by someone more fortunate enough.
There would be times, mostly on evenings when all's quiet enough to lose my wits, when I'd beg for the omniscient creature to show itself; I'd assume it is within these objects, these walls: I'd beg for another's mouth to tell me how early it is to mourn, and how inane it is to even think of wailing even in silence—a mouth penetrating enough to yell at me and carp at my wrongs; be cavil, be unreasonable, spit nonsense—those are what I'd ask for a favour. I'd beg for another's pair of eyes to see and question, preferably much more glaring and keener than the ones I have: what do I even mourn for? Whom do I mourn?—a pair of eyes more foresighted to see whatever lies ahead, which mine don't no matter how naked they are. But I don't beg for a pair of ears to hear my disembodied words tonight, all laden and hopeful for a hint of you and your sound and your body language. You had always told me our God cannot be asleep, that He is taking His time. But neither have I felt Him waking.
This is silly, but I have always wanted to have a portrait of you; be the one to make it, have the hands behind each stroke of you. The longing pined away and left my mouth as I sighed, thinking about the happiness that it would make us: a portrait of you, smiling, your eyes smiling; everything in your face is worth a distant god's ransom. And that would not be good—thinking of being the one to make you—would it? But it also feels wrong to just wait here and succumb to my own stillness.
You know, the best five hours of my life was when the window of my room, back in our home, had held my gaze out; the longer it had gone on, the more sought-after and closer the nothingness had become. Such a haze was those five hours: in front of me was a canvas—I could tell it was appealing to relish, to a good-old greatness, to a little flair; all the things I hadn't been bereft of with my life with you. How content was I?
All my apologies and my begging: what if you dream one day and they do hear you? What if you see me one Saturday and it's your day off from work, you've just woken up, your eyes squinting at the noon sun because you probably spent all-nighters reading and painting, and I'm in the kitchen, still mastering your favourites (still don't know what they precisely are), and you ask yourself, "Are we living?"
See, I do not fear the day that you'd ask me that: I fear the time that you will ask that yourself—which I'd be proud of when you do, I'll try. But out of all the few choices that we have, you'd continue living with me despite, and doubting me—my means, my judgements, your faith in me—quietly out of spite. You'd think about these things: what I am doing, what I have done, what I should have done, and if they were ever enough—I admit as I apologise: I don't ever want to know your answer to those.
I don't remember, in this life, that I ever tried to muster the courage to look you straight in the eye and claim feeling so pleased, feeling so rewarded, feeling so complacent that I have done everything I could. But looking at you now—the peace on your cheeks, sleep in your eyes, the pink and blue and yellow of you—I think and feel I was never fair with you: things I had done, not enough for you; things I had said, not enough for you to hear. Between the two of us, I think I'll always be the child: I will always be looking up to you, I will always want to know your thoughts, and listen to you say them, and watch you do them. If I ever told you this, I think you would think how foolish I am. But I want you to be the one to lead me; that the both of us would be safer had you been born first than I.
I'm not waiting for the world's forgiveness of me and neither am I of yours, but I'm waiting for you. I am ashamed of myself and I do not doubt that by the time I'm done waiting, this shame will still round me up; I will let it eat me up along with everything I wish you had the chance to know. You have given me so much—thank you, but I am sorry that you had to. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this is all I'll have to give and tell you, for now.
June 2028. One of my former professors in college, Mrs. Sol Hidalgo, has directed a play called The Dam and it has been amazing, I must say. She's given the three of us—Yves, Jean-Marie, and I—copies of the script. Currently it is drizzling outside, and the cold pervades its way in my apartment. I keep the lights low and yellow and bearable. I couldn't turn the heater on because it has been inoperative for weeks and would filter through strange sounds, and I hadn't the time to report it to a real estate agent when I'm good with my comforters back home which I still use till now, and I'm reviewing the copies, drinking chai. The play has been held in the State Theatre near Town Hall, where you and I would always go during my free times—I know you miss the claw machines we'd see every now and then upon setting foot in the city, it would be loud, the streets would crowd with people, our faces would numb in the same cold but that wouldn't stop you from wanting ice cream in a cone, and of course I'd get you one, and I'd get you another (it was one of the times when you wanted to try a different flavour, and you'd crunch your nose the way I do—silly you—but you'd stick to strawberry anyway).
The characters of the play would remind you of the ones we'd fail to grab in those cheating, testy claw machines, and I'd tell you: "That will be all for today; please don't frown," and you'd frown anyway because you couldn't get a Pusheen, the one with a small pizza against its mouth; the big one, too big for your short, little arms. I have met great people (it is still people, even when I mean I had met two or three, right?) along the way: Yves—she's my roommate from college a couple of years ago (I think you'll love her)—and I talked recently about Mr. Morris, the feline character from the play, he was like The Baron, from The Cat Returns—one of the movies we'd watch every Thursday night, (and Friday, whenever you happened to get lucky with me) and I barely even remember it now, but you thought of The Baron funny, handsome, even.
Mr. Morris, in the play, has chided Mrs. Dahlia, another character from the play; the dam of five kittens, asking her: "I'm no father, nor am I a mother, nor do I have an own kitten to cherish and adore, but Mrs. Dahlia, I must ask you: why do you leave every so often?" there was a strain in the voice of the man that played his character, "But when you do look after them, why do you not stay longer, and leave them amongst the grass, and not tell them why when they ask—what ever is it from the outside world that seem to pull the light in your eyes, that you come back every night, and the children sleep, some of them weeping?" and the man that played Mr. Morris did a good job in portraying a disgruntled wonder; his arm rose in the air as though emotions would confess the weight of themselves better that way, while the other arm made its way to Mr. Morris' chest, dramatically disheartened.
But Mrs. Dahlia's response to him was: "A mother who grants her children answers to questions about her leaving could either hurt them, or much worse, bear them a grain of understanding. I have been waiting for them to ask why I have returned, but they have not asked me. I will not be giving the whys and wherefores for I wish the hurt to be mine all proper, and no one else's."
"Well, I don't know," Yves sighed. I booked an uber for us minutes ago, waiting for it. Her hands clung to her body in the night's cold. "I've never been interested in furry pets; I don't have a fur allergy—or whatever it's called—they're cute but I don't think I'm fit to be a pet owner. The play was good; almost convincing me to get me a good 'ol pet, or something. I'd have one if they could talk—it'd be a happily ever after for me," I smiled, palming my face. "Fuck, oh, it's cold," she said, shuddering.
Jean-Marie was listening behind us as we talked, lighting another blue Winston.
"I've always wanted a bunny, though," I said, sniffing a little. I thought the cold got in my nose. "A grey one, like Mrs. Dahlia."
"God," Yves slightly gritted her teeth. "If you do get one, I better not catch you collecting boba poops on the floor—it's marble!"
"You won't," I countered, chuckling. "And right; it is marble. So there should be no problems."
"Thinking about it," Yves started, scratching her neck. "The mother bunny–"
"The dam," Jean-Marie said suddenly with their eyes in nowhere, the smoke clouding their mouth.
"Okay, the dam-mother-bunny: I always thought dam mother bunnies took care of their buns in like . . . I thought they were some of the most clingy creatures, you know, more caring than dogs," Yves trailed for a while, her gaze at the city lights, "turns out they leave their children the fuck alone whenever they want," Jean-Marie and I cackled at her delivery. For a second it was even funnier that Jean-Marie was listening all that time; they seemed to look a little stoned. "Wish mothers too were that homo sapient enough to leave grown ass children alone—we're already twenty-something, Jesus! Mum still nags me about my old sweaters from junior high; I told her my siblings could have it."
"'Homo sapient'," Jean-Marie quoted, choking on the smoke, "Where did that even come from?" they asked, chortling.
The uber came shortly after our little laughs.
And Yves was the reason why I saw that play. She and her girlfriend, Jean-Marie, were two of Professor Sol Hidalgo's favourite pupils back in college, and we have been keeping touch since for the last five years or so. They'd often ask me about you, and I'd tell them the same things, the same assuaging things: "She's doing fine. Thank you for asking. Isla's been keeping her company, and I will tomorrow, because I went to the bookshop again today; fetched some things—new books, mostly, for her," and how curious were they about you, they'd tell me how badly they want to meet you, like really meet you, to which I had promised them that soon they will—I've been telling people that for a while now.
They'd pay a visit every Friday nights and Saturday afternoons—sometimes one of them would join me during early Monday mornings before we get to work—bringing in posies of pink and yellow tulips from the flower shop (by Madame Stasia, you'd also love her) down at 8th street. A month ago, Jean-Marie went in with Yves and brought a bag of yarn and hook supplies with which the four of us, including Isla, would crochet different kinds of mini bucket hats for you.
"Where do you even learn these?" Yves lowered her brows as her hands shook at the loss of control in hooking in and out the yarns.
It was around seven in the evening and it was our fourth stay in room C-110. I'd tell the two of them, Yves and Jean-Marie, to keep quiet because every now and then a nurse would check in on us, albeit my laughs were easily drawn out by Yves' utter confusion in this little project—urged so well by Jean-Marie. Next to me was Isla—focused on her own version of a fuchsia pink berry hat—and next to her was you.
"Youtube's free, babe," Jean-Marie said, almost crouching her back to her hat. "I'm making this one extra thick so cold's not out to get her easily,"
"Well, I'm making a hat and a keychain," Yves crowed, snickering. "Yūn mentioned she liked ponies," she said, lifting in the air the undone little thing.
"Aw," I smiled, "that's sweet. She does. Her favourite's Rainbow,"
Yves' smug smile drooped, almost comically, as her face turned serious following the name. She slowly looked at me, to Jean, then to the thing by her hand. She put it on her lap.
"I have . . . I've been making Twilight Sprinkle!" she cried.
In her face we laughed and Isla palmed her cheek. And the nurse—no, Dr. Heard, your doctor, opened the door and gave us a sterner look.
Then we shared knowing looks to each other after he left.
"You're such a good sister, Yūn. See, she's just lucky to have you," Jean-Marie told me two months later, one Thursday evening in late August, the month when we were assigned to manage our third play somewhere in the South. I remember it was only the two of us left in the studio; others had probably left an hour or two ago, since it was also getting late, as we both were one of the trusted people to have stayed so long at the field to exceed past the office hours. I'd say it was by far one of the busiest months as we had to travel to and fro cities and suburbs to meet up with men and women of letters, the blue-sky creatives, all those sages and scholars, with their rooms cooled with inverter air-conditioning 24/7 and maximalist desk works that always seemed pretty neat and eventful in my eyes, the works of an aesthete, even for a desk, despite the mess.
Every now and then Professor Hidalgo would introduce us to one or two of her old protégés from the same college we'd gone to, who are all now buoyant men- and women-in-black (sometimes beige and other classic colours) and successful with their recent projects here in the North, mostly theatrical pieces and productions featuring the recreations of introspective and transcendental topics such as the short monologue from Everything, Everywhere, All At Once, and the long one from Pearl.
"Just a sister," I was nibbling on my lips that time, refilling the printer's ink; we've almost used most of it for the scripts' first drafts, and it slipped my mind we had final ones. "But I'm glad to be her sister."
Jean-Marie is now the assistant director of Glass Theatres, a new launch and one of Professor Hidalgo's many theatre companies in the North at Miller Street, and Yves is in her fourth year of studying political science (so random, but that's her), but she'd used her free time with us to manage the literary productions, with Jean-Marie the direction (the manager told them it's about time they switch position for fun, since Jean-Marie's brain is loaded with such concepts and abstraction that, not so surprisingly, do most of the work and favour most audiences: one time they and the manager almost fought about it, I'd say they stole his spot, and man, was he so pissed about it: he called for a fifteen minute break and went to the restroom as he grimaced) and I the extensive analysis of literary works, but I don't get to form criticisms about them; I do leave a minute of commentary suggestions, to which most of the time get dismissed.
Yves slammed the door to the storage room after putting her bag and things inside it, and the banging sound scattered in the empty, cluttered stage—now looking around, I've never realised how disordered and wrong things started to seem; it's like waking up after a nap cut short because of an alarm that said DRINK WATER at five in the afternoon. And because of long days of motions and schemings and activities, I don't recall when the mishmash started to appear normal in my eyes: there were piles of articles and magazines and two or three monographs by this month's new best authors on top of the piano—I learned that the piano was used only for musical rehearsals, nothing more and nothing less, and the team would move it backstage to be replaced with a new one every important exposition—which was almost two decades old that the people here made it just like an ordinary counter, with three cups of yesterday's coffee and notebooks laying inert on its lid.
Tony, an intern, told us weeks ago if he could move a table from the cafeteria to here, a temporary one, saying, "I did not expect for this to be my workplace." while dramatically beckoning around the area, and the manager just said he could leave, and then he did leave. I hadn't the heart to mention to anyone that I did agree with him, even though his delivery was kind of cocksure and hurried, kind of how a jerk would say, "I did not expect females to be this dramatic." Well, we do need a proper table if we're going to work and get things done. After all, a good workplace influences high levels of productivity. But I don't suppose we need another blockhead to point out how miserable we all get here sometimes.
Jean-Marie and I would alternate in looking after the piano, this piano: they before rehearsals and I after-hours—although there already were many evident scratches and old pastes on its hardwood material procured from the past rehearsals. You don't know how badly my hands itched at taking those cups off and leaving them on a sink, but the manager, with his age, would smack one of my hands, telling me to keep them to myself, before I even tried to touch anything on the piano's lid. The tender and fellow feelings I have for the piano stayed with me nonetheless.
Yves stood wan with her arms arched on her hips as I was telling her she could just rest and call it a day, and that everything is handled here.
"Everything's absolutely not handled here," she said, looking around and gesturing at the shambles we have made of the space. She cocked her head back at me and ribbed her brows, as though I've said something alien. "And why the hell not? I'm still waiting for law school to really eat me up. My readings aren't that long, or maybe I'm just cutting them shorter 'cause the best people on Earth are here. Wouldn't want to miss things here, though!" Yves said, resting both of her arms on our shoulders, and Jean-Marie and I would thank her; she didn't mind lending a hand with the papers, costumes, and even joined the Vanities team as she claimed her hand was as still as a breath ("Come on. Aren't makeovers just like painting? You even use the same brush I used in painting an Auguste Toulmouche piece!" Yves told Ryan Vuillard, the very gay makeup wizard, and he rolled his eyes giving the makeup brush to Yves). And even the printer was hers, to which I promised her that I'll be the one to buy the ink once it runs out.
It had taken pretty much a longer while to notice how the North is still the same—I've been only living here for a couple of years—people have been more thriving, of course, at least that's what I think after the new year, and I miss our house in the West, of course, but I want to be the first person you see. Isla had moved to another rented apartment shortly after your admission; it's at least fifteen blocks away from here, and she had told me she's planning on staying there until all's well. She has most of your things, but it didn't slip my mind to bring you your favourite books and read them to you.
You know, months have passed since the last play I have been invited to; you know I'll take you there, you know the both of us will enjoy it. And you know, Mrs. Dahlia's answer is still on my mind. I would've liked to know what you'd have thought about what she said, what made her say it—I would've liked the talk we could've had about it. Though I miss the times you would disagree with me, and call me out (I remember the times we used to analyse each and every media we had gobbled up; every art and literature, since you were growing up so fast and since you were a 'strong independent woman', you say; we'd argue and joke and hug each other, and you'd mock me, but just so you know, I let you win most of the time). A long, long while ago, back in the West Silverwater, I've always loved when you'd see my wrongs: the way I talked back to Isla (she misses you so dearly) in some silly fights before, I don't even remember the reason for my anger; the day I couldn't talk to anyone including you when I've had my first period. I'm sorry for doing that—you must have thought I was dead, or worse, mad at you: I was not, I'll never be, I could never be mad at you.
A week after we admitted you to this hospital, I had to decide quickly on some things, but know that not all of my decisions were absolute—but also know that I couldn't let myself dwell on this quite of a loss. One of those decisions was selling half of my art pieces (no, I didn't sell the ones we had made together) and Jean-Marie, before I'd known it was Jean-Marie, was the first person to ask me about it, with the native Australian accent strong in the air inside the compact area, "Do you smoke a bit of weed?" and everything started to seem peculiar, not that I didn't like it.
"Excuse me?" I said, knitting my brows together a bit at the sudden question (about weed? At three in the afternoon?). I had displayed my works inside an old bar; it wasn't that spacious but at the time, I had thought it would do—Yves and I had cleaned it up; she had insisted on the help, and I could use it, more or less. We'd repainted it, and fixed the slide door because it made strange creaking sounds whenever someone closed and opened it. The area was beside a tattoo studio, and the owner of that studio was one of Yves' friends in high-school. We had rented the studio after my contract as a graphic designer was done.
"Do you, sir, smoke weed?" the woman asked again, slowly, intently.
"I don't smoke weed," I told her seconds after, having scoffed a little at my own amusement of her question.
"This studio's new. I used to smoke here with a friend—she's the one who found you. Seeing it now," she looked around, comically sighing. "I think the artist hits weed, eh?—judging by how great the oeuvres are,"
"That . . ." I squinted my eyes, not quite sure of what to say. "I'd take that as a compliment," I said, smiling, "unless you go around dead asking people that,"
"Gotcha!" she hit the air. I joined the cackles.
"Name's Jean-Marie," she introduced herself, "—don't call me JM—and I go by they or them."
"Yūn," I nodded, reaching out a hand. "I'm comfortable with any pronouns. Nice to meet you." I replied, sticking up a hand to which I gladly shook.
But no; about our art pieces: I couldn't bring myself to sell most of them, my art, despite the, well, pessimistic episodes and all of the trying times. Yves had helped me with a lot of things even though she was needless to: I was a part-time graphic designer for a small agency for twenty-five months, and with her help finding the cheap and quality canvases, I'd bought a couple of the best from the money I've made. Well, Yves was a freelance artist and she had a lot of time, and I am ever grateful to her for lending me a hand.
"My mom likes to call and we'd never expect it," Yves said one evening, portioning the paint primers on the chair. "Just never mention any of this," she gestured to her laptop; she was working on a lot of editing. "If she finds out I do art then we're done for; I wouldn't be able to go with you down 15th street, the canvases and all that, man, were they heavy—and I know many more hidden gems with good quality shits, cheap, too!"
Not long ago, Jean-Marie decided to live with Yves, joining us in the residential apartments in The Miller. Before I was able to have my own, though, I wouldn't have blamed the landlord for having many reservations, since I had told him that my parents weren't around ("So who'd even pay your bills, young man? If I let you get this room, we're both gon' be homeless!")—I wouldn't even mind at all if he'd thought they were dead, I do so, too—and despite having the option to live with Isla, and despite her insisting to, her place was just too far from the agency I was starting to work with, and I couldn't afford to be late around Professor Hidalgo. I hadn't even the idea whether or not our parents resided in the city, but of course I didn't tell the landlord that. Instead, I showed him the last pay I had that month and his face lit up like a lamp as he'd asked, "Are you one of Hidalgo's students? Boy, I have to live like you people!" and my only reply was a smile. Since I was at college at the time, he offered me another room, one not so different from what I'd had in mind. But at the time, I also thought that the apartment would do. After all, I was just looking for a little place to settle in, one average enough as long as the windows exposed half of the active city. I'd be beyond grateful for only one window, but the apartment had two, and for a second my mind had restarted, it seemed.
Looking outside windows had been helpful for me whenever I'd be out of creative juices, so every extra early morning, I'd grant myself a couple of minutes, ten maximum, to stare at both everything and nothing and listen to the loud and quiet that's happening outside, and I'd fidget on my seat, the early morning cold would be on my feet, with a coffee, but mostly chai, and be half-asleep and crossed-eyed in peace for whole ten minutes. I found it rather healthy. I started smiling more.
I had no problem resting my pieces on the walls and the floor, they kind of look pleasing, having been confined with each other in my room like that. Even though Yves' and Jean-Marie's unit is much more airy and loose-fitting, they'd come at my place to drink chai (I'd always told them it was only the cheap ones you could find in Woolworths, and it was also under fifteen dollars for twenty sachets, but they'd use the excuse that I do something with my chai to make it almost more ambrosial—all of which I don't mind at all as I love being with them) and watch through my Stan, since we had a whole month for us before the free-trial could end.
So they're here at my place. An asian film is on the TV screen, almost as a background noise, while now Yves' redrafting articles and proofreading them for a thesis and redesigning tons of layouts for that thesis on her laptop and Jean-Marie's done for the grind of the night. I tried to sketch out one of the personas from the screen but later on gave up because the film director had decided low exposure would be a great idea for everyone's eyes to really be soaked throughout the motion images. I'd say I've been ducking over and lifting my head trying out different angles to really discern what's going on in the movie for about forty-five minutes now. Funny because I still have papers to attend to for the actual work I have.
"I know, I know," I told her, keeping my eyes in front of the canvas while stroking the brush—it was linen, and thank God it was linen—it was the best, and we got it for sale during Black Friday, to which of course we waited a long line for. "We'd make a thousand pieces without anyone ever knowing; been doing this for months now," I was working on my fourteenth piece. It was a woman, before I knew it.
As of late, I'd decided I'd give myself a max of six months after planning on making fifty more pieces, in all hopes that they'd sell, because I've been receiving emails from Dr. Heard, your doctor, saying that the hospital bill has been overdue for over a month. It was my turn to pay double since Isla has been covering the fees for these last couple of months. Dr. Heard, he told me, understood our whole situation; he'd give me one of those consolatory smiles and a pat on the shoulder during one of those doctor-to-patient consultations, but of course I smiled so much that I gritted my teeth turning my back after the conversation for having alive parents and not having them by our side, your side. Everyday now I wake up extra early to paint for half an hour before going to work with Yves and Jean-Marie.
And Jean-Marie was unmoving on the couch when I tried to call their name. After realising they were asleep, Yves got up and started tidying a little around the area and cussing under her breath: there were nuts and cereals everywhere; on the coffee table and old magazines, on Jean-Marie's knees and thighs and most evident on either sides of her mouth, and inside the couch's cleaves—and Yves knew those would be hard to clean up, too anxious about the ants living with me for the night—their scarves and beanies and earmuffs hung on the chair's top rail. "Yves, I'll handle it," I said when I noticed her coming back from editing and folding up the scarves and rearranging their things and then typing. She only shook her head and swung a hand, mouthing 'I got this'. I checked the Weather app for any sign of rain because the window had beads of drizzle from outside, plastered with a cold haze. The cold was really here. Inside the pack of chai had two more sachets left, and I packed it along with a bag of nuts and cereals that Jean-Marie has been obsessing about for these past weeks.
"You sure?" I nodded and smiled. "Thanks for this, mate, I owe ya," Jean-Marie said, her eyes still heavy with sleep. The two of them stood outside the door, arm to arm and head to shoulder, ready to leave.
"Come back anytime–"
"Oh, we ain't done here," Yves clacked, "we're basically living together. Jean and I are just seven doors apart, 'kay, Yūn? Call if you need your freeloaders over,"
"Come on," I crowed, expressing disapproval, "what? No one's freeloading," I said, coming closer to them for a hug.
And after the hug there always comes silence, the type I wouldn't mind sharing with them. I was hopeful to hear more, perhaps of something very warm to linger on to me for the night. Because you do know that within this people, you are loved, the deeper and longer you dream. I know so.
"We're here, Yūn, always," Yves said after the hug. She looked solemn and kind as she added, "Know that, right?" from me she received a nod, and Jean-Marie, too. "We don't know how long we're going to wait, but does it matter? If I can digest a darn load of paperworks in a day, 'course I can learn to make a good little sweater for her, 'ven if it takes weeks."
"We all got her. For me, she's also my little sis." Jean-Marie slowly nodded at saying this, having reassure the very emotions, for years, I'd had to delay contending with.
We shared the night's last hug.
My mind went abstract and my lips were in a curl before I knew it when I could still hear their muffled laughs even after I closed the door. I grant myself a full smile, thinking of these people.
Moving back onto the wooden chair in front of the canvas, I contemplated on whether or not I should continue painting or begin where I've left off on the literary analysis which was due in five days. It was late at night after all, but oddly enough, I got to be the most innovative during these hours, and I knew my mind wouldn't rest not until I brought these ideas to life. So before I could even decide on anything, a paint brush was seized on my right hand, the brush started detailing and stroking, the detailing and stroking gave weight and meaning to a face, the face started making sense, and when it made sense, it started looking at me. It was hard to believe an hour has passed.
Have I ever told you about the woman I had met before at the same park we'd always gone to? Right, I'd never gotten the chance to. Perhaps I'd show you a portrait of her once when you wake, the one I'm doing now.
It was October. I had met her—although not really—at the park in front of Strathfield College in Surry Hills. That day, I remember I had urged you to come with me, and you had told me it was going to rain, and that you hated the rain, I know. A palm supported your chin as you were colouring pictures of your favourite cartoon characters (Rainbow Dash, was it, and Sunset-something, from My Little Pony?) and you had told me you had to finish working on her. You were right though; it had rained a little after a while, and it was very windy and warm at the same time.
But I still went on to the park to see the only landscape of trees that had caught my eyes. They were lined up straight altogether, as though they were brothers and sisters. And you know what the West is like: one moment it'd be sunny and then another it'd rain. Before the rain, though, I was on my way to my favourite spot at the park, the one in front of the trees. And I saw her there, the woman, at my favourite spot, sitting on the bench, her nose glued up on the pad where she seemed to have sketched on. I'm sure our eyes met for a second. I couldn't remember much, but it wasn't so vague, because a little while after, we were talking, and talking, though before that, I didn't want her to think I was creeped out—I was a little, and she had apologised, and even I had felt more apologetic; I didn't want to hint at awkwardness about anything, though I also wanted to play cool about the whole thing.
How rather challenging it was to try to delineate and portray a face of someone from a memory of almost five years ago at 2 AM. Her hair was past her collarbones (is it still that long now? Did she cut it?), the afternoon sun accentuated at most strands of it, it was almost blasé about the wind. I'd had to glance a little to her on my side; I was trying my best not to squint my eyes, and if I did, I had pretended it was of the heat and the dried leaves that flew as she was drawing me. You know, I couldn't help but wonder about how she is doing now. Since it was a long while ago, I find it hard to dare say I'd recognize her or she'd recognize me amid a crowd. And I feel even more sorry for having told her that I'd see her little portrait of me once it's been finished—did she ever finish it? Does she at times remember the woman she had met on that bench in that park?
Though through our little big conversations, I thought she seemed nice to be around. I figured out not long after that she was trying to perhaps sketch my face, and I helped her through it by having given her the nod with her little endeavours in that one afternoon. At the time, I had granted myself the faint idea that she was perhaps practising to draw a person's face. I hadn't supposed anything would go wrong by that little act, right? The only few impressions I had of her was that, she'd mentioned, her bed was her best friend; so I had thought she liked to sleep or take a nap every afternoon or a person that stays mostly indoors, and I'd noticed that she loved to sketch, and maybe go to parks. She did mention that she lived around the West near the college, and at the time, she'd told me, it was her first time to go out in a while. And I loved the part when her lips curled up when I'd told her she could continue. And did you know she'd said that I had a talented sister? Because I had mentioned you liked to colour and draw as well. She was right about that, she still is now, but it is only my shame for addressing her as she and her and the woman for not ever having the chance to ask her name—but who am I kidding, really? I had the chance to, but it was just in all my hurries to see you after you had called. I had to see you.
It is also fairly unwonted and strange how both a little and big part of her now is in my room. I'm imperfecting and perfecting her out of a little big memory, the prevalence of one that is tinged both with pipe dreams and actualities. It is also strange that I somehow want that memory to last, but not stay as only a memory at the far end of my mind. I notice the cool and true blue overlay on the walls, opposing the yellow light, as though I was supposed to read a letter from the moon tonight. Maybe I shouldn't sell my fourteenth piece. I will be keeping it after all. I think it's time to rest.
Good night, Little Su.
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