Change
On November 8, 2012, I wrote about October 17, the day of the cremation:
The coach was parked along the curb outside the entrance to the Church Of Our Lady of Lourdes. The coffin had already been loaded into the hearse. On the coach I sat next to SF, a friend since art school days at Stamford Court in 2007. She had taken leave to be with me. The rain got heavier.
From Ophir Road the coach turned into Kallang Road. The shophouses and trees that flanked the right side of the road reminded me of dinners at Arab Street. Boon liked Middle Eastern cuisine. He was fond of figs and kebabs.
“Why are they still standing?” I asked SF. I was staring at the trees through the rain-streaked glass of the coach windows.
“They will be pulled down one day,” SF said with a sigh, thinking that I was referring to the shophouses. So much of the Singapore she and I grew up in has disappeared. How can we not be influenced by this ideology of the ever-new, the tabula rasa (coined by Rem Koolhaas for our island city of constant change)? Our sense of time is shaped by how our society deals with old things. Demolish them and replace them with shiny new things. Nothing is irreplaceable.
But I was looking through a different frame that day. Why was everything outside still intact? Why did the trees stand tall, their trunks sturdy, unshaken? Why were their branches still outstretched? Why were the leaves still attached to the branches? Why were the shophouses still standing? Why did they not crumble? Why was everything still the same?
The roads we used to drive on, the places we used to eat at, the buildings we used to drive past, the plants along the Nicoll Highway, the trees at the Armenian Street car park, the trees at the car park behind Timbre and Substation – they are the same. Meanwhile I can no longer say "we" and mean Boon and I in any futural sense.
How could I return to Tiong Bahru where Boon’s old flat used to be, the neighbourhood of his childhood, those familiar streets where we walked my dogs? I will never be able to face those places again, the fruit stall, the Yong Tau Foo stall, the steamboat place in the corner kopitiam. They would all still be the same.
“Where's $4?” the uncle at the Yong Tau Foo stall asked Boon in Mandarin when Boon went to the stall without me. When Boon told me this, both of us laughed and laughed at the thought of me being called $4. (I always had the $4 bowl, Boon the $5.)
Today is July 4, 2013. Eight months have passed. And this is what I write today:
Never say never. On February 14 this year, at lunch time, I took a bus to Tiong Bahru. A few weeks ago I would not have been able to drive past Great World City without breaking down. On the bus I read a text message from an acquaintance asking me if I was doing okay. I texted a standard reply. I’m ok, how are you? My mind was partly on something the counselor said at one of the sessions. Going back to places where Boon and I used to hang out, this is part of the process of coming to terms with his death.
It started to rain heavily. I did not eat at the Yong Tau Foo stall, I ate at a curry rice stall that I had not patronised before, drank a cup of teh si siu dai, took a bus back to the office.
I did not want to fall sick again, having consumed enough antibiotics to wipe out several colonies of germs in January, so I concentrated on not getting wet. I was so absorbed by my efforts to stay dry that I did not think about anything else. It was still pouring when I left Tiong Bahru.
And this is how life carries you with it. This is the mechanism of carrying on, the cogs and wheels of me, me, me, I, I, I. It rains heavily and we focus on not getting wet. No time or energy to philosophize, to be “emo” (this is still such a peculiar word to me).
On April 11, I went back to Tiong Bahru for lunch again. This time I was not alone. SS, one of the editors in my team, was with me. We had Yong Tau Foo. After that we went for a short walk around the neighbourhood. We were very pleased to see our titles in a children’s book shop. I bought a book and a goodbye card for a friend and former colleague who was heading back to the States with his partner and baby girl. There was a bit of drizzle but the skies cleared in no time at all and the sun was out when SS and I headed back to the office in a cab.
(to be continued)
The coach was parked along the curb outside the entrance to the Church Of Our Lady of Lourdes. The coffin had already been loaded into the hearse. On the coach I sat next to SF, a friend since art school days at Stamford Court in 2007. She had taken leave to be with me. The rain got heavier.
From Ophir Road the coach turned into Kallang Road. The shophouses and trees that flanked the right side of the road reminded me of dinners at Arab Street. Boon liked Middle Eastern cuisine. He was fond of figs and kebabs.
“Why are they still standing?” I asked SF. I was staring at the trees through the rain-streaked glass of the coach windows.
“They will be pulled down one day,” SF said with a sigh, thinking that I was referring to the shophouses. So much of the Singapore she and I grew up in has disappeared. How can we not be influenced by this ideology of the ever-new, the tabula rasa (coined by Rem Koolhaas for our island city of constant change)? Our sense of time is shaped by how our society deals with old things. Demolish them and replace them with shiny new things. Nothing is irreplaceable.
But I was looking through a different frame that day. Why was everything outside still intact? Why did the trees stand tall, their trunks sturdy, unshaken? Why were their branches still outstretched? Why were the leaves still attached to the branches? Why were the shophouses still standing? Why did they not crumble? Why was everything still the same?
The roads we used to drive on, the places we used to eat at, the buildings we used to drive past, the plants along the Nicoll Highway, the trees at the Armenian Street car park, the trees at the car park behind Timbre and Substation – they are the same. Meanwhile I can no longer say "we" and mean Boon and I in any futural sense.
How could I return to Tiong Bahru where Boon’s old flat used to be, the neighbourhood of his childhood, those familiar streets where we walked my dogs? I will never be able to face those places again, the fruit stall, the Yong Tau Foo stall, the steamboat place in the corner kopitiam. They would all still be the same.
“Where's $4?” the uncle at the Yong Tau Foo stall asked Boon in Mandarin when Boon went to the stall without me. When Boon told me this, both of us laughed and laughed at the thought of me being called $4. (I always had the $4 bowl, Boon the $5.)
*
*
*
Today is July 4, 2013. Eight months have passed. And this is what I write today:
Never say never. On February 14 this year, at lunch time, I took a bus to Tiong Bahru. A few weeks ago I would not have been able to drive past Great World City without breaking down. On the bus I read a text message from an acquaintance asking me if I was doing okay. I texted a standard reply. I’m ok, how are you? My mind was partly on something the counselor said at one of the sessions. Going back to places where Boon and I used to hang out, this is part of the process of coming to terms with his death.
It started to rain heavily. I did not eat at the Yong Tau Foo stall, I ate at a curry rice stall that I had not patronised before, drank a cup of teh si siu dai, took a bus back to the office.
I did not want to fall sick again, having consumed enough antibiotics to wipe out several colonies of germs in January, so I concentrated on not getting wet. I was so absorbed by my efforts to stay dry that I did not think about anything else. It was still pouring when I left Tiong Bahru.
And this is how life carries you with it. This is the mechanism of carrying on, the cogs and wheels of me, me, me, I, I, I. It rains heavily and we focus on not getting wet. No time or energy to philosophize, to be “emo” (this is still such a peculiar word to me).
On April 11, I went back to Tiong Bahru for lunch again. This time I was not alone. SS, one of the editors in my team, was with me. We had Yong Tau Foo. After that we went for a short walk around the neighbourhood. We were very pleased to see our titles in a children’s book shop. I bought a book and a goodbye card for a friend and former colleague who was heading back to the States with his partner and baby girl. There was a bit of drizzle but the skies cleared in no time at all and the sun was out when SS and I headed back to the office in a cab.
(to be continued)
Labels: grief
posted by wheyface at 6:39 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home