in transit, on the way
the first and the last are lost to us
conversations at the bus stop
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Really?" The most important thing I've learnt from being a teacher in Singapore for the last 15 years (teaching at Primary, Secondary, Junior College levels and in both Government and Independent schools, MOE HQ and now in a private international school) is the importance of "learning how to… Continue reading Protest the test
Sofa cushions commandeered; sturdy sponge squares stacked into walls of memories shored with pillows and draped blankets holding entrances; exits, childhood.
at the children's section of the library you read six books to me, us both huddled on the floor, surrounded by other children, mothers, fathers also reading, jumping, running punctuated by the occasional scream. For a while I felt we were like everyone else; just another seven-year-old breathing life into words and his father also,… Continue reading Yesterday
Last night I got home and my three-year-old at the gate asked me where I'd been. "Exercise" I huffed. "Why daddy exercise?" "Because daddy is old." "Why daddy old?" "Because... that's what happens." "Why?" "You will grow old too, Sophie." She looked away. So did I.
grandpa was not richbut bestowed us a fortuneof sweets, chocolate coinsor twenty cents to buy our own.grandpa was not richbut gave us our first wheels,scavenged from spare partsracing corridors, pounding hearts.grandpa was not rich,but he made butter sugar dreamsandwiches, washed down ice creamsoda at a rental flat in Ghim Moh.grandpa was not rich,but he always… Continue reading ice cream soda dreams
They say you don't remember Anything before the age of four. Don't remember that thumb jammed in the door, Don't remember that tooth Chipped on the floor, Don't remember tantrums In the toy store, Don't remember your mom's Sleepless nights, Don't remember your dad's Tired sighs, Don't remember your brother's Protective lies. You won't remember… Continue reading To be three
It collects in pockets, on the edge of photo frames, the sediment of sentimentality. It gathers in the stillness of breath waiting for your finger, to trace an outline. Cleaning is an exercise in utility, every obliteration a momentary rejuvenation time-travelling back to before we were old, to before there was just dust. Background:… Continue reading Tracing an outline