| For Uncle Peter |
[Sep. 12th, 2009|12:43 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  indescribable | ] |
It is a breezy room in the afternoon, the flaps of the meagre curtains flapping in the wind. Beside the window, there is an old wooden bedside table (upon which we see a family photo, with him, a woman and a boy, and a crucifix) and hospital bed with a man lying on it. He is skeletal, frail, but alive. A tube sticks out of his nostril. He stares vacantly up at the ceiling. His surroundings are quiet except for the giggle of children downstairs, and the occasional shuffling outside his room. He moves, but in a limited manner. His legs are bent, and thin.
There is a knock at the door. He turns his head and sees his wife opening the main door, the sunlight streaming into the dim living room. Murmurs of joy enter the house, and a group of people step on to the linoleum floor, talking to his wife or amongst themselves.
A frown clouded his thoughts, his face showing confusion. Who were these people? Why did they seemed so familiar, yet not so? After a minute of brief chat, the group of people entered his room, a man, and 2 women, accompanied by his wife, who was now holding a pair of mandarin oranges.
Who were they? In his mind there existed a thick mist that obscured the memories that he had before what happened to him. He tried to clear it by swerving his head on the pillow beneath him.
“Luke, Luke, your sister, sister-in-law and brother-in-law have come to visit you.” His wife tells him in Cantonese. He leans his head towards the window. A small lady blocks his light, casting her shadow upon his body. Her face resembles his. She smiles. “Luke, you remember me?” she says in Cantonese. She pats his hand. They all seemed to speak in Cantonese.
He stares at her face, the hand in his mind waving away the mist. He remembers her voice, though it has aged. The mist clears, revealing a one-storey house at the bottom of the block. It is like an apartment, but bigger, and there is a walled space in front of the house, with cages of rabbits. He is there, a boy of 10, holding his sister’s hand. She speaks to him as they walk towards their house. It must be their house. A boy from within waves at them as he shuts a cage, whilst shooing a dog away.
The skeletal old man nods his head vigorously as his wife asks him whether he remembers the small lady. “Jie!” he wants to say, but he can’t for his throat is now useless. A croak comes out instead. Who was that other boy? Was it L…Lionel? He returned to his memory, but a mist has clouded it again. He shouts, trying to clear it, but the clasp of his sister’s hand is loosening, and once again he is left alone.
“Luke! Luke! You want to play mahjong again? Drink kopi?” a man’s voice comes into his mind. He turns to see a balding man, wrinkled and tanned. The mist was clearing. That enthusiastic voice… The clacking sounds of mahjong tiles upon mahjong paper was sounding through the mist, the murmurs of chatter, the laughter, the bright lights, the smell of black coffee, the flurry of hands over the tiles, the cold smooth tiles, their backs tinted green. His face yearns to smile at the man. His brother-in-law. He remembered. The distinguishable mole that danced upon the man’s mouth as he joked. “POHNG!” a hand slams on a tile on the table. Groans sound around the table. The man at his bedside grinned at him. “Luke, HU ah!”
Luke managed a grunt, his hands waving.
His family started talking over his skeletal body, they seemed thrilled at his reciprocating enthusiastic response. The other woman, slim and rosy, must be his sister-in-law. Where was his brother then? He looked at her face. It was slightly sad, although she was smiling. Was his brother dead? Was he the… when did he last remember his brother’s face? The mist was now swirling around, mocking him. Were these people even related to him? The now appeared in his mind, random people on the street, walking. Even his wife, that woman, was an anonymous face passing by him. Was she just a nurse? Or was she his wife? A little boy is attached to her hand, and he looks up to him, eyes widening in recognition, his mouth appears to form the words “pa”, but it is never heard. The mist howls past his ears.
The old man opens his eyes. He sees his marriage photo hanging on the wall. A breeze enters the room. Outside, in the dim living room, his wife sits, reading the papers, the ghosts of his past gone. He cries as he tries to reach, with his bony hand, the oranges on his bedside table. |
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handsthatspeak's journal
cheerful
crushed
blah
contemplative
bouncy
scared
silly
the birds
