by Valerie Ng
I.
It’s a Monday and the soil is dry. You step into your father’s car, where the leather runs smooth and the inside smells like cologne and dried hydrangeas. The moment the sun hits your face you dream, of Apothic Red, of water lilies, of the tune of the harpsichord you heard at Times Square, of someone fucking you senseless, of the colour of justice, of colours, of her.
II.
I love you. You were always clever. Seventeen years ago when we first met you were waiting for a cab in front of the pharmacy. A blister in the sun. I asked you if you believe that fates are sealed the moment people are born, filling in the gaps with meaningless conversation. Something about you made me weep. I wanted to kill you then. Death crawled from the floor and intertwined with the gaps between my fingers; and it must have been a painful one.
III.
I bring you a jar full of memories, which feels so intimate yet foreign. Broken discs from a decade forgotten, graduation. The basketball court where you first experienced the stabbing pain of love. A broken key ring from Australia. You sit down on the cracked leather seat — the one you sit on every day, and go over your words meticulously. But it’s no use. The collar of your mother’s shirt is choking you. No one will die today, because no one needs to die.
IV.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the things you’ve been through. Soon you will discover that the only way you can let go of all this is by talking about it. You were good to me. Remember the anklets, the crystal-clear waters near the hilltop’s brook, the rooftops of Mersin, the landlady who served us tea in a cracked kettle and the stray who spent nights curled up on the balcony floor next to our slippers. Remember the beauty in simplicity that will never be regained. Remember, I know you will.
V.
On the table are my quarters: a washer and dryer, a large wicker basket overflowing with unwashed linens, my father’s shirts folded on the ironing board. There is a small table where I have arranged my fountain pens, journals, and copy of Beckett. I sat, readying myself to face my parents, praying; and for a brief moment I felt as if I might die; just as quickly I knew everything would be all right. And I might, just for this second, be able to say goodbye to all that.
Valerie Ng is an undergraduate student at the University of Toronto. Her works can be found on Medium.com under the handle @valerieng_ and in several publications on the site. She loves 70’s rock and is a staunch defender of all things mint-chocolate flavoured. When not writing, she’s probably out for a long run, getting coffee with a friend, or participating in the writer’s favourite hobby of overthinking. You can find her on Twitter @valeriengxx and Instagram @valerieng_.
