A Lifetime Problem

At six, the way to school is filled with

construction noises, dust debris like

insolent children on the playgrounds nearby

to remind me that school is a tedious,

tardy, obnoxious place on the island of desolation.

One day, I asked my father for not going to school.

Now thinking of it, I could have asked for

a day of stakes, unlimited side dishes, and

that may have stood a higher chance

beside the impossible, and the harsh

pummelling that comes with my crudeness.

I don’t know what happened in him,

but he looked to the side; moments, I was worried,

thinking what happened to him, perhaps

what happened to me — for just staring

at his skinny, crinkled face. I thought

he’d sent me to my room after school,

to give me the gift of battering, or forbid me

to eat altogether, for what I said was a sin —

to the rustic upbringing of his disposition.

But, he took a breathe; I saw his rib

bursting from his overstretched shirt,

and no signs of anger in him. He spoke,

and asked me whether I want to speak

English and Chinese really well;

I said yes, for I had a talent — the child

naiveté. “Then go to school,” and he points

to the workers in yellow hats, reflecting the

magnificent sun rays that the day gives,

shining brightly from the iris of my eyes.

“Or you will end up like them.”

Childishly, I nodded; knowing nothing

different between me and the worker,

thinking we are all humans, and he can

speak. Perhaps read and write. So I

moved forward, not realising the differences. 

To this day, I can still remember how vivid

the scene was; a pouring of water

over my mind, and how a knock twelve-years ago

is now a departure for me: on the tarmac

road then, through the air now.