Written by: Libby Ye
“Excuse me,” the coffee shop owner coughed as he motioned towards the clustered tables. I lowered my eyes and shuffled out of the line of eager people seeking for clarity.
A house, an anchor, a garden – the three Lenormand cards laid cupped in my hands, separated from their shuffled counterparts.
I sat in the corner of a chipped wooden table, my curiosity at odds with my belief in autonomy and acts of free will. The conjunction of my desire to glimpse into the future and my scepticism of prescribed fates had withheld me from researching about the meanings behind the chosen cards. As a compromise, I had reflected on the past five months, reliant solely on my subconscious feelings regarding the house, the anchor, and the garden.
My months of COVID-induced isolation had been fuelled by walks around Singapore, from Marina Bay to Raffles to Orchard to Sentosa. With the world teetering on its axis, people looked on from within their rooms – their views halved by windows and quartered by their panes. With the donning of masks, I was silenced and assimilated into my surroundings. With the ceasing of traffic, I was able to tear my gaze from the usual headlights and appreciate the accidental asphalt imprints beneath me. With the halting of idle shoppers, I was able to discern the cascading films of dust particles illuminated by the afternoon light.
Undisturbed, the golden glitters fluttered, just like they did in my dreams. They were pixie dusts borrowed from Tinkerbell, allowing me to fly amongst the clouds. Of course, just like in the movies, they needed to be replenished.
On May 15, there was a shortage of pixie dusts, and I came crashing down.
3,803 kilometers away, my grandpa passed on.
At 10 in the morning, halfway through the first block of my online class, I acknowledged the subdued knocks on my door. I knew what had happened before my mom had even opened her mouth, her reddened eyes and dampened cheeks had vocalized the realization of my worst fears. I had been having dreams of my grandpa passing away, each time waking up shivering in a pool of sweat. Yet, upon receiving the news, I felt numb and detached. Waves of roaring silence engulfed me. I could feel trickles of tears gushing down and strands of hair sticking to my drying tears. Yet, it was as if I had been lifted out of my body. The me I knew had been severed in half. The first immobilized in my chair as the other looked down with a passive gaze. I had no idea how I got through the rest of the classes. Perhaps with the vehemous rain pounding against my window, I was able to alleviate some of my sorrow.
The sky had been washed clean, the clouds condensed and liquified as the whole world seemed to mourn for his departure. The glittery residues dissolved in puddles, glinting and taunting.
I had plummeted from the sky with an anchor around my neck.
I walked out into the rain that day. The sudden icy drop of temperature perpetuated by the sun’s descent into darkness. My first contact with the surface of the water as the anchor dragged me relentlessly towards the ocean floor.
No matter how hard I thrashed, I could not get free.
I began to have nightmares. Flashes of my grandpa on the hospital bed, gasping behind a glass. I was unable to help. Some nights, I didn’t even know which one of us was trapped behind the glass.
Yet, over the course of an obscene amount of comfort foods and reflections, I began to accept the reality. The anchor loosened as I stopped struggling, as I started to accept its presence. It hit the seabed without me, and I gradually began to float towards the surface.
My first breath of air was taken during a 2 am walk in my neighborhood. I had lain across my favorite bench and stared at stars peeking behind the clouds. Tragic how such a dismal sprinkling of dots could pass off as stars! With the three dots forming an isosceles triangle above my head, I analyzed my feelings during the brief respite from overwhelming sorrow.
My grief had mainly stemmed from the guilts of what could have been. How I should have spent more time in Shanghai. How I should have read more books in Chinese. How I should have played more games of chess with grandpa. How I should have finished my diary from Mongolia to share with him. How I should have gone to Wenzhou with him when I had the chance. How I should have sent more messages to him from Singapore. The list was endless and inexhaustible.
However, a few weeks after his departure, I dreamt about him. Alive and well. I was aware that it was a dream, an unbelievable opportunity to provide closure. I told him all the things I had wanted to tell him. I recounted scenes from Mongolia – of triple rainbows and feral horses galloping across the stream under shades of fuchsia. We played our last game of chess. We said our last goodbye. We shared our last hug.
It was the best ending I could have asked for.
Suddenly, the midnight walks around my house didn’t seem so insidious and demoralizing. The previously gaping abyss of the ocean was now illuminated by the pockmarked moon.
I had found peace before the break of dawn.
The garden was the last card. The last stage in this series of events.
I had found my refuge and solace on the bench. Through assiduous care, I had nurtured a garden around it. Seeds were planted by the musings of what could have been and blossomed into gratefulness for what has been. I had emerged from the shadows of sorrow and built my own garden, a memento for my beloved grandpa. Etched into every petal, was a dialogue. Enclosed within each flower, was a beautiful memory.
Standing up, I uncupped the dog-eared cards and layered them over a five dollar bill for my mug of chamomile.
Inkling. 