Friday
A little boy next door, as little as 5 years old, gave me some small red flowers. Three flowers. They are red. Very small, -but beautiful. And he blinked his eyes towards me and smiled and shied. Such a sweet little thing. He kept talking on the tram to me, trying quite hard to get my attention with his sometimes illogical stories, a mix between fantasy car, or scooter, and a real vehicle. Until he and his mom got off at Victoria Market and I proceeded to Collins Street to get on the next 109 tram to Fitzroy.
Saturday
On the way to Moreland Station with my housemates. An old man, I mean, really old, white haired, on a scooter/wheelchair, passing in front of us, just near the gas station. He blinked his eyes towards me for seconds, like flirting. I was shocked. What the heck was that?
Sunday
One
An old man asked me two questions:
First : are you Greek?
Second: are you married?
Answer:
First : no, I’m not a Greek. I’m from Indonesia.
Second : Yes, back in my country (inspired by Helen’s answer to a man who asked her same question on the tram).
That was the end of the conversation. He left without saying anything. I lied to save myself from further unnecessary annoying conversation. Dear Lord, forgive me, I just returned from attending Sunday service and I lied at the first step on the tram.
Two
I bought a bunch of mix flowers for Irene, my friend at the nursing home. Just a few meters outside the flowers’ shop, a little old man, white haired, wearing a pet hat, smiled at me. “That flower’s for me, no?” he pleaded. I answered, “Sorry, no”, smiled back, saying a “Have a nice day” and walked through the Coburg market pedestrian alley, rather quickly, or I’d miss the couch to O’Hea Street. Missing a couch during weekend is a disaster. The smell of fresh bread of the bakeries along the street could have made me hungry without good reason. People are sitting and chatting in the street café near between the bakeries, cafes and public library. The chilling wind flew through my nose, and it got colder inside me. The skies were grey, such a gloomy day. The autumn leaves fell off and kissed the earth. A guy was sitting in the street café, waiting for his coffee I supposed. He smiled and commented on the flowers again, “They are beautiful don’t they?” I said yes, thank you and kept walking.
Three
Hop on the other bus, but a wrong one. 527 instead of 513, simply because of curiousity, but the route got more and more unknown. Got off at Coburg Terminus to avoid further lost. Ten minutes more, I thought, not bad. At least I spent 15 minutes at other bus than just standing alone at the Coburg Primary School bus stop, with the traces of vomits, left some drunk people last night. I must have walked and crossed the street three times before reaching the next bust stop. An old lady wearing red long coat, blonde curly hair, and an Indian man with a small trolley for junk mail. I walked passed them to see if there’ a vacant seat. None. I walked back. The old lady looked at my strange act of reading a house auction board nearby the bus stop. Undoubtedly, I showed a face that looked as interesting as possible (to the ads). Unfortunately, it was not so convincing, at least not in her opinion. “Do you wanna sit here?” she offered me a space. Both of them smiled at me. I smiled back at her, “No, I’m all right”, and continuing my reading: the auction board. The house is small, with two bed rooms, nice wooden floor. Looks cozy. All right, I’d better stop this lie. I walked closer to the stop, expecting them still offered me the seat. She asked “Which one do you wait for?”. “513, I missed the previous one” I answered. She said “Yes, I hate that too”. “Yeah”, I answered shortly, now understand why she asked which bus, cos 903 and 513 came by from a far. Thanks God. And the skies were grey still.
Four
“Thanks for bring me my flowers while I’m alive and can see them. Don’t bring me flower when I’m 6 feet under”. I knew the sentence exactly, per comma, per dot. Some conversations rolled as usual, she’s chatty most of the time. She thanked me for the money I’ve spent to buy those flowers. I have never mentioned the price to her; it’s not relevant I thought, I’m not a saint I must admit. Those flowers are not expensive at all. Spending 6 dollars every fortnight wouldn’t kill me. It’s only equal to two blueberry muffins at the Professor’s Walk café down the Giblin library.
I said sorry because they’re not so fresh, some leaves start to yellowish and I have to detach them from the bunch before putting them into the vase, that I also bought for her a couple of months ago. I threw the old ones to the bin. They stink, it’s been more than 2 weeks and she’s been keeping them that long. She said she just planned to separate the ones that are still a bit fresh so that she’ll still having the “fresh” flowers. That’s really touched, but it’s an irony. After raising two children and having more than 20 off springs, no one cares to pay a visit, not even to send flowers every fortnight. I told her, “This is what I can do while you’re alive Irene, because I’ll probably won’t be here when you die”. She smiled back at me.
I saw the artificial grass down there from Irene’s window, green, too green for this season. They put some chairs to sit there, but I bet nobody would do that in this kind of weather. I told Irene when the weather gets better, she should try going down there, or I can accompany her to walk down, -‘cause I know she’s an outdoor person. But I know that time would probably be not existed. By the time the weather gets better, I’ll probably somewhere else, not in Melbourne. It’s always sad to picturize a goodbye.
I see the sky outside Irene’s window pane, it is still grey. The traffic was very slow in the Cumberland Street. They look like matches boxes in a row, moving slowly. The new building in front of the nursing home is standing there, grey and maroon, formal and neat. With an ad board in front of it, ready to be sold. It took only 3 months to build a building as big as that down here. I looked at the sky again, not much changed. I hope it’s not gonna be raining, I’m stuffed with this stomachache, have no strength for running. Not with a pair of sneakers, moreover with a pair of 3 centimeters height boot. A call for lunch from the carer is coming. Irene must go to dine at the dining room. I said goodbye, get my coat and properly covered my body from crazy Melbourne cold wind outside. I left the nursing home building. It is strange; I just realized suddenly, why the grey paints? To indicate that life is withering inside the box? The designer could have thought of something better. I buttoned my coat tightly. The wind gets colder, don’t let an inch hole on your clothes. I walked faster to the bus stop. Yeah, fifteen minutes more to wait. What can I say? I can’t make it to walk to the next stop but wait here.
Five
An impulse to buy cheap knitwear was failed by the sound of coming tram from the north. Fear of missing a tram on the cold weather beat the prospect of happiness from getting a cheap new clothes. I ran quickly and crossed Sydney Road without minding the red traffic light, there was no car anyway. Arrived at home safe and sound, however. Finding my room was wrecked as usual. Coat spreads on the bed. Training pack does too. Books and papers are everywhere. In addition, it is dark as hell. I haven’t brought down the navy blue summer blanket from the window; I used it protect my bed from the cold breeze that sneaks from the sill of the window glass. I don’t care. I need hot soup and hot drink more than the need to have a neat room right now. Small talks with Helen before peeling garlic and vegetables and boiled the chicken wings and thighs. My chicken soup (and mushroom, and carrots, and snow peas, and macaroni and celery and oh, sausages) is ready. With a small portion of rice that was cooked by Helen, I had my lunch at around 2.30. And get my room in, at the least organized as an ‘organized’ can be defined, or an order if you like. I’m taking down the blanket, freeing up the room from some claustrophobic atmospheres. Some lavender air spray fragrant to drive the garlic and fried fish smell away. Close the door, browsing the “ how to do analysis” on Google. Staring my laptop blankly and writing this piece of article. Jim Reeves gospel songs, Libera songs, flowing in the air from my windows media player... And the sky is still grey as it was this morning, the fig tree is withering outside…the branches are emptier, drying up. I heard a small child cries from the other house..and wondering when this real life movie will come to an end. Just need a crow to scream and that will complete this gloomy 'kind-of-horror-movie' day. I need to be in the tropics. But first of all, I have to finish these chapters. Then I rang tropics, really, I mean home. Mom was talking on the other end about the elder people fashion show at church, the unfair jury, the laughing crowd, and the fashion show itself. Such an amazing story! She was still so passion about anything. That’s mom. She loves life. I’ve been thinking about her these couple of days and I suddenly received her SMS. I bet, God has something to do with connection :). I prayed for that last night.
Epilog
I know what song will be perfect for these things: Regina Spektor's Laugh: God can be funny. Yes He is funny, indeed! I love you Lord, my God. Nothing can be more interesting than You! In all You do, You tell me and we laugh together… Life is beautiful, nothing can make me bored (of You)! You always have fresh ways to give me joy, through some funny small things, through some serious thoughts.
Instead of sending me a nice young guy who gives me a bunch of flower; it’s a small boy who adored me and gave me one.
Instead of sending a nice young guy who asked me “Are you married?”; it’s an old grey man who was eager to know whether I’m available or not and asked me “Are you married?”.
Instead of sending me a nice young guy who gives me a bunch of flower, I bought a bunch of flower for an old lady, and there’s that old man who asked whether I will give him the bunch.
Regina Spektor's "Laugh":
God can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus
God can be so hilarious
Ha ha, ha ha
Yes, you are hilarious God!
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