I dreamed I was dying; as I so often do
And when I awoke I was sure it was true
I ran to the window; threw my head to the sky
And said whoever is up there, please don’t let me die
But I can’t live forever, I can’t always be
One day I’ll be sand on a beach by a sea
The pages keep turning, I’ll mark off each day with a cross
And I’ll laugh about all that we’ve lost
–Calendar Girl, Stars

What makes you feel alive? A song that reaches into your core. The wind that whips through your hair as your feet make light work of the flight of stairs that lead you to the gradually closing doors of a train. The perfect sentence in a book that tugs an unstoppable stream of tears from your eyes. Watching the upwards curl of someone’s lips as they taste something you have made. His kiss, thick with meaning.

When he goes, I wander around the house, feeling as if I don’t exist. Everything around has been condensed into a series of noises : the neighbour’s phone ringing, the cry of a child, the squeal of tires, a siren in the distance, laughter and clinking of glasses. Noises, from intangible sources. Nothing I am a part of. The last Cheezel, in a crumpled foil bag, that no one will claim out of politeness. In this isolation I eat nothing but tinned tuna and iceberg lettuce for a week. I take long walks in the dark evenings. Tea provides temporary comfort.

The day before he returns, I bake, and cook, and whisk, fold, simmer and stew. I love you, through mashed potato and braised octopus, flourless chocolate cake and green tea biscuits. A strange way to live life, I’ll admit. But we never did touch, hug or kiss, my family. What we want to say, we say with food. I love you, fried bananas, chilli crab, ripe persimmons. I’m proud of you, banana split, cream of mushroom soup. I’m angry with you, and when I’m angry, I don’t offer you anything, but when it’s alright again, we can have Milo, crisp red apples, Marie biscuits.

This post is for my beloved far flung family. My mother, in London, my sister and her family in Dunedin, my dad, in Kuala Lumpur and my brother in, erm, Pennant Hills.

The Perfect Family :
The perfect recipe for the perfect family doesn’t exist. It is continuously adapted and shaped according to circumstances and what life has dealt you : lemons, siblings, lemonade and love. My recipe contains a few of these things, including trust and honesty in varying, unmeasurable amounts.

Calendar Girl who is lost to the world Stay Alive
January, February, March, April, May I’m alive
June, July, August, September,October I’m alive
November, December, you all through the winter, I’m alive
I’m alive
–Calendar Girl, Stars