brittle

Today I felt like part of a family again - casual phone calls to my father to ask if my brother was with him / anxiously waiting for for my brother at the entrance of a busy train station, looking for him and cursing under my breath, and then finding that he'd been peacefully reading on the platform for about half an hour (and then I could only smile) / seeing my mother at the hospital with him and exchanging "oh god" glances across the table as she launches into a tirade about keeping our health //

My brother is growing up. He's 14 now and I stand at his shoulder. He's got acne and wears glasses and a perpetual frown. I smile at him and he furrows his brows but the corners of his mouth turn up just enough and I know we are both glad to see each other. He is still the boy of few words, but he is trying to ask me questions about my life. I do my best to remember I am not 12 and he is not 10 and we are not trying to annoy each other, him by asking me stupid questions and me by pretending he is invisible. I want to hug him but I am afraid that is too much for now. I don't really know what to say. We haven't seen each other in months and a lot has changed in both of our lives; a lot has changed in both of us. Current me is a stranger to current him so I resort to banal stranger conversation about school and subject combinations and what do you want to do after Os. I wish I could hug him and then maybe ask him if he uses any facial wash. Can I buy him some facial wash?

Train ride with a wall of a man sitting between us. Taxi to the hospital. I am feeling guilty and sad and protective and happy and curious and afraid and everything all at once and that makes my head and my heart hurt. We arrive at my mother's ward and she is delighted to see us. We find ourselves in a three-way embrace (slight reluctance on my brother and I's parts). It's the first time we've seen her since she was admitted about a month ago. She's a lot more sober now, but still a bit too excitable and has ambitious plans for when she is discharged. We sit down at a table in the visitor's area and she hands us hand-written cards and paper cranes. Then she reads us a 9-page poem about waiting for her children to visit her. I think my brother has tuned out by the fourth stanza. My heart is breaking as I listen. I am trying not to tear up.

My mother takes her dinner with us. Talks about nothing in particular. Then she says her memory has gotten really bad.... when is my birthday? It is in October. She says the doctors didn't do anymore ECTs this time around. I am relieved to hear that. My brother takes out his sketch book. He has been drawing cartoon characters and I am so ridiculously happy to learn about this new interest of his. Maybe he will want to do art too.

Before I know it, it has been an hour and a half and I have to go to meet a friend. My mother lets me off but insists that my brother wants to stay longer. I look at his face and he is pleading with his eyes to let him escape with me, but my mother is relentless. I leave with guilt-heavy goodbyes and try to forget everything for a while. I hope he survived it okay.

I meet Pei Shan to have dinner and a heart to heart at Far East. We are both sad and in need of each other and in need of a good pig-out. We talk over our fried kway teow and bee hoon and talk some more as we watch people on the richer floors of Ion. There was a woman in a clingy yellow maxi dress that was sheerer than she must have realised and everyone saw her black bra and her black g-string and we felt embarrassed for her. Then we went to a bakery and had really good bread and talked some more and it was nice and familiar and safe.



It is a Yuck night. There is a weight in my chest.