Grief

I am sitting at a memorial service in a church snug in the east end of Singapore. The master of ceremony goes up to the pulpit. He tells us that we will begin with a time of worship. “These were some of her favorite songs,” he says. A screen rolls down. The lights dim. A video plays.

She appears, strumming a mellow song on guitar on that very stage just a few Sundays ago. She was only 23. There she is, cold and silent, lying in the coffin. There she is, warm and tangible, singing onscreen.

There she is, my sister, in two places at once.

Continue reading Every Place At Once.

Between January and February this year, I ate Japanese food for 35 consecutive days in Singapore. Using food, place, and other materialities as placeholders for my sister, I was trying to reprogramme my body out of grief. Continue reading Reprogramming my body out of grief.

Today, I am 28 years 7 months and 23 days old.

Today, my sister would have been 23 years 10 months and 23 days old.

Instead, she will always be 23 years 5 months and 5 days old.

*

Tonight, at a party, I met someone from my sister’s universe.

When a mutual friend interrupted our conversation, I introduced him as some one who had taught my sister, as some one who had known my sister. Some one else who overheard us asked how old my sister is; I said she would have been 24 this year.

And then I felt so ashamed of myself.

* Continue reading Grammar.