Art by Jocelyn Soetanto

I’m in the midst of tossing and turning in bed, too lazy to get up, when incessant thuds force me out of my comforts. Sluggishly, I pull myself out from under the snugly arranged covers and head to the door. Peeking through the peephole, I see the familiar stature of a woman. I blink twice, rubbing my eyes to make sure it isn’t a lethargic hallucination. How is she here? As she reaches up to rap on the door again, I swing it open, face to face with the hunched woman, the wrinkles on her face scrunching as she smiles up at me. 

‘你长高了,’ she says, her eyes scanning me up and down.

She nods in approval at the man I’ve become, though my dark eye circles, bedhead and mismatched pajamas feel like quite the contradiction.

She moves past me, her magenta cotton shirt brushing against my arm as she enters. Her hands cradle a thermal flask. She glides through my home as though it’s hers, bringing out two cups and filling them with her homemade longan tea.

‘你还好吗？还在读书啊？’ she gestures at a chair and I sit down, still confused by her arrival.

‘还好.’ I take a sip of the tea, the familiar, light sweetness enveloping my mouth in a warm hug. ‘好喝’. I shoot her a smile, my eyes softening at the sight of her greying hair and trembling hands as she takes sips from the cup. ‘你来是为了...’

She smiles. ‘我想听那首歌.’

It’s been years since I last picked up the violin, but how could I say no? I retrieve the instrument from my room and begin to play, my fingers moving deftly as if no time has passed. The notes string themselves into the beautiful melody I know as her favourite song. I see her nodding gently, a smile adorning her face. My body relaxes into the rhythm, and I close my eyes. I play the last notes of the song, then let the silence simmer in the room before lifting my head to look at her, only to find her gone. The two cups of half-drunk tea rest on the tabletop. 

In her place sits an equally old man, his hair as pale as the white singlet he is wearing. I do not recognise him, though I feel an odd sense of familiarity. He speaks—gently, softly—in a language foreign to me, but I recognise it as Hainanese. In spite of my inability to speak the language, I have an innate comprehension of it. He moves to the balcony, where a stone charcoal stove balances on two red bricks. A wooden stool sits dangerously close to the fire. He squats down on the stool, brings out a straw fan and begins to fan the flames. On top of the stove sits a clay pot, the bottom burnt black from use. Bubbles emerge and burst on the surface of the white freckled landscape, and bits of carrot and fish bob up from the congee. 

The smoky charcoal merges with the starchy steam of the congee; the smell reminiscent of a childhood I had long forgotten. 

The man turns, gesturing for me to come over. He hands me the fan and points at the clay pot, mimicking a fanning action with his hands. I take over his spot on the stool, coughing as the charred smoke enters my lungs. A hearty laugh erupts behind me, and I turn to smile at the man, whose hands are now behind his back—the picture of the Asian grandfather stereotype. I turn back to continue fanning the flames. Orange sparks flare up from the greying charcoal. I feel a reassuring hand on my shoulder, a few light squeezes of encouragement before his hand lifts.

I turn, this time ready to see a new face. I was unprepared to be met at eye level with a small boy in a bowl cut—the spitting image of a younger me. He’s dressed in a loose-fitting t-shirt and shorts. His muddy shoes leave marks as he rocks back and forth on the tiled ground. He holds an equally muddy football; blades of grass cling onto it firmly. 

‘Will you play with me?’ he asks, tilting his head slightly.

‘I don’t know how.’

‘You’ll learn.’ He shoots me a cheeky smile before turning and dashing back into the apartment, running towards the exit.

‘Come on! Come on! The sun’s gonna set soon!’ The boy stomps, blissfully unaware of the mud staining the lacquered wood floor. 

I speed up my walking, hoping that my longer strides will be able to keep up with his seemingly endless boyish energy. He swerves adeptly out of the apartment, finding the exit the way sunflowers find sunlight. The red blur of his t-shirt is the only thing I can see as I try to keep up with him. He dashes across the street to the grassy fields as I follow behind. My feet hit the wet grass, droplets of dew springing up to meet them, tickling my calves and providing a cooling sensation as I chase after the boy. He does a few football drills, his familiarity with the ball filling me with awe and admiration. He kicks the ball over to me, and I scramble to stop the ball, nearly tripping in the process. 

‘What do I do with this?’ I look down at the ball under my foot. 

‘Pass it back!’ He shouts from across the field. 

I awkwardly aim the ball in his general direction and give myself a running start before I kick it to him with full force. It barely makes it to him, the ball gaining some speed before being bogged down by grass and mud.

‘Sorry!’ I yell, slightly embarrassed by my attempt.

He gives me a thumbs up from across the field, rolling the ball under his foot before kicking it back to me. And back and forth we go until the sun goes down, the cooling sensation of dew now replaced by sticky, damp sweat. I squat down to take a breather; the physical exertion has clearly taken a toll on me. I hear the rustling of grass as he jogs over.

‘The sun’s gone down, I’ve got to get going soon.’

‘Will we play again?’

He smiles. ‘Maybe,’ his voice blends into my grandmother’s, ‘on a random Tuesday.’