The air in the classroom was humid and stale as Mr. Ng droned on about covalent and ionic bonds. Half the class was as still as non-reactive atoms, and the other half were fidgety molecules in their dark blue plastic chairs. Five more minutes before school was over, and all of us could hardly wait.
It’s Mum’s tenth death anniversary today. She died shortly before I entered primary school, and I am now about to take my ‘O’ levels, praying hard that I’d at least get into a mid-tier JC with cheaper school fees.
But Mum’s death anniversary also meant the annual visit to her grave site after school with Dad … in that ancient beast of a lorry that would herald its arrival without even having to honk.
The countdown to the school bell ringing was especially excruciating for me. What should I do before the Embarrassment arrives? Should I go to the toilet and wait until everyone leaves? Should I … Cllk-lllkk-kkk-cllkk! My insides twisted. The roar of a large diesel engine snapped everyone out of their stupor. Everyone in class turned to me and sniggered.
“Eh, May, your dad very on time leh! More on time than our bell!” Nick behind me didn’t even bother to whisper.
I rolled my eyes. A babble broke out and the class began to pack their books. Mr. Ng tried to get our attention but he was drowned out by the engine noise.
The school bell went off, and my class promptly dismissed themselves. I trudged down the stairs and headed towards the source of the noise.
“Ah May! Today so on time ah?” Dad boomed. “Want to eat lunch before visiting Ma’s grave? Let’s go eat your favourite chicken rice!”
“It’s okay, I’m not very hungry. It’s been a long day and I have homework to do. Let’s just go visit Ma’s grave and go home.”
“Har?! Cannot lah, wait you got stomach pain again how?”
“Can we just go for a quick lunch? I’m really not hungry.”
I climbed up the lorry and slammed the door shut. The engine roar was starting to give me a headache, and I still couldn’t get over being seen in the vulgar presence of the lorry.
IT'S MUM'S TENTH DEATH ANNIVERSARY TODAY...
But I started to feel guilty as I stared out of the window all the way to the cemetery. I know Dad cares, but teenage angst and a long day at school got the better of me. Now and then, I could sense Dad glancing my way as he expertly manoeuvred the rickety, nine-year-old lorry through the traffic. Dad’s karang guni* business relied on this vehicle, and so did my education. Honestly, I often wished that my dad was well-educated and had a good office job so that we didn’t have to worry about money so much. And that he’d ooze with charisma and eloquence like some of my friends’ fathers, who look like they have everything going for them — a luxurious, quiet car included.
The lorry screeched to a halt; we had arrived. I climbed out of the vehicle and into a place starkly different from the school that was bustling with people and life. Here at the cemetery, silence reigned, as did quiet reminders about death.
The flowers that we left at Mum’s grave last year were gone. I placed fresh ones that Dad had brought along on her grave.
These blooms seemed to inject a little more life to the dead quiet. I began clearing the dried leaves from Mum’s grave, and as I did, I read her favourite Bible verse engraved on the tombstone: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. … And the second is like it: Love your neighbour as yourself. — (Matt 22:37, 39)
For the first time in my life, I was curious. Why did Mum love this particular verse?
It dawned upon me then that the busyness of school had filled up the void that Mum’s death created, and Mum was slowly becoming a hazy, distant memory.
Perhaps if I dug into this verse that she had chosen for her tombstone, I could find out more about my late mother who bore me and left me too soon …
Find out what May learns about her mother in parts 2 and 3 of the story to be published in Kallos Issues 22 and 23!
*Malay for “gunny sack”, the Singaporean way of describing a rag-and-bone man who collects discarded items for a living.
