January 21, 2012

My dearest,

I tell you I am back in Malacca. Hometown for the holidays. Reunion dinner. Chinese New Year. The whole works. I tell you it’s depressing to be back, really. My parents have sold their old house, the site of my childhood, and bought a new place. A sensible move, a smaller house for their use, it’s only the two of them now. My sister has her own place nearby and I am not here. But still, it saddens me to see the old place go. The memories sold and gone.

I tell you I miss Johor Bahru, the capital of our southern neighbour. I had never been there till we met and our Friday evening journeys down to your hometown. A house you bought for your mother, who passed away some months after. Now a quiet place, our weekend getaway. Almost everyone would argue that Malacca is more beautiful and historical a town than Johor Bahru, but is this true? I do not miss Malacca; nothing remains there for me to long for.

Yet I am elated by the knowledge that in another week, after the initial festivities and furor, we shall be heading down to Johor Bahru together. High school friends gathering for mahjong and mandarin oranges, gossip and grousing. Your annual ritual. Now mine too.

How is it that I miss another’s hometown more than mine? How is it that I long for the chee cheong fun and the wat tan hor that you introduced to me there more than the famed cendol and chicken rice of Malacca?

You know why but you won’t say it. You fake ignorance but can’t help but laugh as I make funny faces at you. It’s you, of course, the answer is. It’s you.

Yours, ever and always.