I loved my mother, so I was not sure why I left her funeral early. I didn’t even see her get buried.
All I remember was the poignant smell of flowers covering the stench of death; the harsh sun mocking me, drilling its heat into my forehead; and all those eyes full of nothing but pity … While the small group of mourners offered their last words, I had vanished.
I drove past the kaleidoscope of huts and houses that dotted Tuaran, with the road ebbing and directionless. Unlike Kuala Lumpur and the rest of the world, most of Sabah had remained unbending towards technological advancements. It had barely changed from a decade ago when I had left at 18 to work in the city.
It stood as a relic of a simpler time. I did not like its lack of control.
I did love my mother. I loved her more than anything else at one point in my life. How could I not? How could anyone? Not after seeing those eyes. Those kind eyes offered impartiality.
They did not care who you were, friend or foe. They were always the same. Those eyes unravelled the thorned ivy snare that grew from all the cruelty and hopelessness of the day.
They whispered: “Come, let me see your wounds, do not be ashamed of them for they are what make you human.”
She removed all my sadness with the secrets she shared through her eyes.
Except when she was the reason for my scars.
As an emergency doctor for neighbouring villages, she would be spirited away at the drop of a hat. I never knew when she would be back. Her presence in my life was unscripted, no matter how much I tried to install a schedule.
It was always the same: her worn-out olive-green briefcase would be packed, and she’d creep down the stairs trying not to wake me, but I always knew. She left a perfume trail, a distinct potion I could never describe.
It smelt like … her. It was especially pungent when the trip was a long one, probably to drown out the smog of suffering beset on her when she arrived.
I would catch her just as she was standing in the doorway, perfectly framed by the rising sun. Her light was always brighter than the rays behind her.
“I have to. I know you understand. I’ll see you soon, okay?” Mother said, her hug eclipsing me as I closed my eyes, wishing it would never end.
But alas, eclipses are not forever. Just like that, she would be gone, replaced by the unrelenting sun that crept into the sky.
She disappeared into the thicket of the palm trees, never turning back to look at me, not even once.
Why did she always have to go? She had always chosen her patients over me. She always left. This time, I would leave her.
I knew perfectly well why I left my mother’s funeral early. I could not see those shut and silent eyes. She could not leave me again. Not this time.
So, I chose to leave her, just as she had left me so many times before.
I left.
I left with something strange in my pocket. I couldn’t remember how it got there. Perhaps someone had passed it to me, or I had picked it up. The way I acquired it was not important, but what it contained was. It was a business card that read: “Serenity’s Beginning – a new way of overcoming grief.”
Editor’s note: This is an excerpt from ‘Perfume’ by Aisha Azizul. It is part of a series of short stories – What The Future Brings. The book is available at BookXcess for RM31.90.
To give the younger generation an avenue to express themselves, Twentytwo13 has a dedicated space called Young Voices. If you are a young writer (aged 17 and below) and would like your article published on our news website, send your contribution to editor@twentytwo13.my.
