Hornbills

Hornbills - great big birds the size of a toddler – caw loudly from outside my fourth-floor apartment window. The tree branches bounce and bend, straining under their weight, as the surrounding concrete magnifies their unapologetic shrieks.

These are not the hornbills of Sarawak, with their flamboyantly dressed red and yellow beaks, but a duller variety. This is the third time in two weeks I’ve seen this family of four birds, perched atop metal lampposts and belabouring the few trees along our street.

I remember that time when my husband and I travelled to Langkawi in Northwestern Malaysia. We’d paid to go bird watching, though we didn’t (and still don’t) particularly care for birds. I’d spotted some hornbills then, and remember comparing them to Sarawakian hornbills: they were a lesser type, I’d said. They look small. I can't believe we paid for this.

 When I think of home, of Sarawak, nostalgia rises, pungent like dragon joss sticks burning in the middle of Carpenter Street. My memory is hazy, but I know – I just know – our hornbills are magnificent.

Sunday

I hold hope, slippery like jell-o, in cautious hands. In this new continent, unfamiliar smells assault me. Their pungency and bitterness, all at the same time. I taste it at the back of my throat. I hold my breath, counting backwards each time till I can breathe freely. There is no air here: only the stench of life and the constant lingering smoke that hangs persistently across the grey blankness where the sky should be.

Tuesday*

I hunch down so I am small as you and think friendly thoughts;

close my eyes, once, slowly, so you know I am not a threat.

I know you know that I know you want to come closer,

but my unfamiliar scent floods your nostrils, signals caution.

I back away; we are not such different species after all.

Monday

I want to whistle without caring how I look, trip with impunity and grin at my own internal jokes.

More than anything I want the optimism, the surety of youth: it is, or it isn't.

In times like these, I want to consult with inexperience.

Monday

When facing a milestone, I am acutely aware of the changes in and around me.

Nature set ablaze, yellowing and fiery reds. All the earth seems richer.

In ten years, I have never seen Autumn the way I see it now: dramatic like a David Attenborough documentary, as life folds into itself and we vainly seek the comfort of our past.

Thursday?

I forgot to catch my breath. I forgot what day it is. I even forgot to write.

****

While the world moved at warp speed I saw in my mind's eye another life:

I cut up my credit cards and closed my bank accounts. Deleted my emails. Cancelled my phone account. Then sold my laptop, possessions.

Burned all the pieces of paper that bind me to this way of life.

And when it was done I was nameless and unidentifiable.

Saturday

The waiting game. Which part of this is a game?

Is there an implicit suggestion that one of us is the winner, the other loser?