Ang Moh

Because I miss home.

Singapore, that sun-soaked memory, threaded
with words that roll familiar off the tongue--Bukit
Gombak, Havelock Road, Dunearn, Jurong
Kechil, Sentosa--taking the 855 from Telok Blangah
to Bukit Timah in the morning, in the evening; I sit in
old buses, white slip pressed between my fingers,
paper tickets before the time of EZLink; buses that
slap metal, that grind and lurch their way around
corners, non-conditioned in the noonday heat. I
could not afford the blue Comfort cabs with pandan
leaves behind seats and bells that sound warning when exceeding
the speed limit. The jungle that smoldered in the sun;
cicadas, the non-partisan storms that gathered on
the horizon and broke over every creature; the
hawker centres with chicken rice and roti prata,
satay grilled over bright flames, red char siew--
the juice lady who finds me where I stand,
promises the best at lowest price; for Chinese
New Year, red envelopes and oranges, bakkwa
and white strands of coconut. Void deck shops
with metal shelves on wheels filled with prawn
crackers and Jack'n'Jills, counters of candy--tic
tacs and chocolate bars, jelly cups, racks of
cheap plastic toys beyond reach of the two
dollars gripped in my small hand; the cold glass
case, water-beaded, with tiny Yakult bottles
in different colours and tinfoil hats; dusky
evenings, crickets, cool mornings, and hot days.

Satay

Photos courtesy of my friend Trixia. Visit her blog here.