May 21, 2014

My dearest,

We rise early in the morning. It’s another working day.

You get up first and switch off the air conditioner. You head into the bathroom and squeeze toothpaste onto both of our toothbrushes. You pull me out of bed and we brush our teeth together, my eyes still half-closed, slowly waking.

You finish before I do and head out to the kitchen. You take the lemons out of the fridge and cut a few slices. You drop a couple of them into our water bottles to bring to the office, so we can have fresh lemon-flavored water all day.

“It’s good for you,” you say, “because you will be stuck in the office all day. It’s not healthy. Remember to drink more water.”

We shower and then we are out of the door. We leave precisely twelve minutes earlier than usual because the Smart Tunnel is closed due to heavy rains last night. You obtain this figure from some obscure calculations involving the school holidays and the humidity. I am still on driving duties because I have more experience in navigating the wilderness of morning Mat Rempits and other half-awake motorists. (Or so you say. I’m convinced you simply want to nap during the ride.)

Despite the heavier than normal traffic, we arrive only five minutes later than normal. This is what they call teamwork, I believe.

As we walk out of the car park and head to a nearby mamak stall for our breakfast, I get a feeling of déjà vu. This feels familiar; I recognize this moment.

Is it another mundane day in our lives? Perhaps it is. It is also a day I am grateful for, to perform these simple tasks with you and to share these small moments. I love you, in this moment, and should it pass, we would mourn it and move on; and if it doesn’t, then may we grow together, older and wiser, every year doubling in our knowledge of each other. May the wrinkles on our faces deepen and multiply, every line a witness, a memory.

Which shall pass, we won’t know. We cannot know.

But this I know. Right now. This moment. This is a blessing.

Yours, ever and always.