Growing up, I could never imagine myself getting married;
the thought was as opaque as a brick wall,
as unfamiliar as the certainty of a vigorous body in my 20s.
A concept so foreign, I could not even begin to recognise its language,
so as to make it, hm, no, not a dear friend—
but maybe like someone you recognise on your morning commute,
when you’re both groggy and grumpy and trudging along overcrowded subway tunnels:
passing strangers sharing a few steps together
(brief, and the epitome of humdrum, of course),
getting close enough to smell each other’s packed lunch,
but never close enough to eat it at the same table over light conversation.
Rest assured, there is balance, as with all things in life.
I could instead envision my funeral
with crystal-like clarity:
the first-row occupants, the tear-jerking eulogies,
the utter devastation for someone taken so decidedly early,
and myself as a fly on the wall,
engrossed spectator to it all,
shedding tears of self-compassion.
I get emotional even now.
What folly! I do get silly sometimes.
Growing down, I have hit said proverbial wall,
have come to know its clay, sand and water intimately,
and have shattered my teeth in its decidedly immovable tallness.
Well, what do you know, I am worse off than Humpty Dumpty.
At least he got to sit on the wall and see beyond its limitations.
So, I do not wish to get up.
Or be put t o g e t h e r again.
I quite like the mud I’m festering in,
thank you very much;
blends right in with my inescapable dark circles.
Speaking of,
circles, circles, spirals, downward, down the rabbit hole we go;
mom sure birthed me right down the loveliest of slides:
delivery room straight to dejection ride!
Too bad I’m getting vertigo.
Can’t even enjoy that right.
But you know what I still enjoy?
All the pretty dresses I get to wear on my farewell day.
Just imagine:
I have had plenty of time here on the ground,
getting familiar with its touch,
sulking and moping and raising the occasional rage-fuelled fist,
and have been inspired beyond any expectations.
Lo and behold, the perfectionist has—shocker—perfected the details to a tee!
Picture this:
me in all of my pretty dresses,
a closed casket of silk, linen, cotton, lyocell, and yes, polyester,
layers upon layers of brightness and zest for life,
covering up every inch of dread and despair
in a flowy, tender touch.
You won’t even get to see my shoes or ears!
All that matters are the dresses.
The dresses I rewarded myself, the dresses I dreamt of wearing on carefree days,
the dresses nestling glimmers, seagulls, seashells, salty air and tranquillity between their folds,
the dresses baptised in soothing sea water,
those dresses.
I figured, since my traitor body made sure I wouldn’t get to wear them in this lifetime,
the least you can do is make sure I go out
in all of the happiness I’d longed to adorn myself with.
Brilliant, I know!
I have had the epiphany of a lifetime:
why get the bird’s-eye view all the way from the farthest wall,
focusing on everything but myself like I’ve done all my life,
when I can be selfish and zoom in all the way to my pupils
—what a concept!
I was the one holding the camera all along, but forgot to press the right button.
Silly me, I do get like that with technology, sometimes!
I had all the details taken care of,
but had neglected the star of the show.
Oh, golly, I get to take centre stage for once!
One thing neither life, nor death have a say in,
even if they join forces.
Watch me show them up!
It will be the act of a lifetime,
performed—in typically atypical me-fashion—after
the curtain call.
Da Capo al Poetry 