leftovers
I carry my leftovers around the house, undecided on where to eat. The waning summer sun bleeds through the kitchen, deeply spilling into the dining room, and warming my brown body and yellow curry. The table basks in welcome, however as I tiptoe into the space, a dark nostalgia looms, prickling my skin.
I was a slow eater as a little girl in my father’s home. After he had finished his meal, I would spend hours alone in the evening dusk, staring at the attractive countryside view of the creek through the massive windows, with a cold plate of scraps I could never finish. My appetite dampens at the taste, despite my adult freedom of choice–so far away from those parts and pieces in my hometown, my early look at life.
Except, the smell of opor ayam dan nasi eases me into a chair. Outside, I see a soft cover of gray clouds; the sky, casting a harsh brilliance, and the smell of downpour clears my lungs. I take a look at my meal and check for steam. Its home in a pot on the stove for the last couple of days cooked it just right–my mother’s law to let a meal marinate. When coming into her marriage with my father in America, she carried these recipes in her hands and me in her belly from Jakarta.
My spoon scratches the plate, peeling away at the sauced chicken with a generous serving of rice. In the hushed house, the music of drops on pine tree canopies sing through the glass, and the quiet scene of suburbia is disturbed by a moderate storm. Finally, I take my bite, and when my head lifts back up, I notice the view of an empty neighborhood has disappeared.
I blink my eyes and the image stays.
Dull rain glitters the backyard of unkempt grass, overgrown reeds, and wallowing magnolias. The wooden pier still pierces into the creek, shaped like a water cul-de-sac connecting four other homes to its pool. Where it feeds is blocked by beautiful swamp.
The smell of wet marsh fills the room, and my breath begins to hitch. I glance above to recognize the low chandler I always managed to knock my head against. To my left and right are–what I would affectionately refer to as–the TV Room and Family Room, and peering over my shoulder I eye the tiled kitchen–all empty, the withered floorboards to the pasty walls, all rotting.
It’s as if the place is no longer alive.
The floor quakes when I slide out of the chair, and with each wandering step, I become certain no one is home. In the kitchen, nothing is humming, but still I smile. Here, my mother introduced me to the scent of durian, unleashing the fruit throughout the house. Against all healthy options, we treated ourselves to crunchy, uncooked noodles in faded red bowls. I would eat the mac and cheese and greens or beef rendang she cooked at the stool on the island, and my mom would patiently keep company.
Out the quaint window, the front yard is shrouded in gray. I move through the kitchen until I reach the front door. I open it, revealing the expansive field of golden barley dancing to the rush of rain, welcoming me. The fog, relentless and thick, softens and I notice there is no main road beyond the farmland, but more creek or river or bay.
Approaching the edge of the overhang, my vision is misty with disbelief, as I become consumed by the surrounding waters isolating me to this house. Still, I look, and the sweet tropic smell of island is undeniable; Java has always been oceans away. Except, the emerging image of Jakarta makes me believe: Am I home?
I notice my feet are still bare, and a juvenile spark ignites my blood. I step into the storm, the drops heavily soaking into my dress and curls. Lifting my head, my face is kissed by the sky, my soles sinking into the earth. For a moment, I close my eyes, my senses only knowing the slick feel of water–of gray and grief–until the storm grows and grows into an overwhelming shower.
I can’t outrun it, but still I frolick. A smile blooms onto my lips as I race towards home, rain pouring onto my teeth. Maybe, I can reach it.
Finally, I open my eyes to a call, and I rub at them to clear away the droplets as I slow to a stop. The opaque wall of gray parts, the familiar suburbia returning, and I see my mom at the doorway of our house. I jog up the steps to her, and she lovingly chews me out for drenching myself in a borderline tropical storm. I playfully hug her, but she holds me tight.
We are what's left over, and together we have moved forward.
“Ayo lah,” she croons, “I’m hungry. Makan.”