January 29, 2012

My dearest,

There are paper pineapples blowing in the wind, hung from the rafters. They are red mostly; some are yellow. More red: streams of Chinese characters I do not recognise line the walls. This is typical Lunar New Year decor. The colours signal celebration, reunion and prosperity to come.

There is a single persistent fly that sweeps around, reckless and tenacious. You had left your empty cup on the table (it was a hot honey lemon juice); perhaps you left your sweetness behind as well. This insect cannot resist. Who can, really?

Tables fill up with old friends and classmates, every table a different year. They laugh and chatter, telling each other how they have put on weight, what a beautiful baby, is that a new car? I do not know any of these people, of course. This is not my city and this is not my hometown. The waiters are all foreigners; they do not speak Malay or English or Chinese. Nothing I recognise. They do their best to avoid the searching glances of the customers. Service is optional. New rules. This is not a history lesson and this is not a lament. Things change and so we change also. We must.

There paper pineapples in the air, red and yellow. Chinese characters I do not recognise, a stream, a babble, a blessing. We hold on to the past; we seek to relive old glories and revive old fortunes. Things must change but we do not want to. We do not. We choose not to.

And you, your sweetness does not change but deepens with the years. I cannot resist. I choose not to.

Yours, ever and always.