Cadence Cheah, Milo With Soaked Oats

Milo with Soaked Oats

Cadence Cheah

I added four tablespoons of Quaker instant oats and three scoops of Milo powder into my green mug. Boiling water dissolved the mixture into a thick brown oatmeal; and my nerves untangled to the smell of malt. Holding the mug in my hand, I walked out of the kitchen into the corridor. Here I had a choice: take a few more steps to enter the living area, or take a right for the stairs up to my room.

Ahead of me, I caught the side view of Popo in her usual spot. Her tiny frame, hunched, occupied the couch in front of the flat-screen TV. The morning light that landed on her face made her cheeks sunken. I watched as she lifted her steel mug up to her lips using her skinny right arm. Instead of resting her arm on her thighs afterward, she lowered it to the level where it could prop on the red stool beside her, as if it was too much weight for her diabetes-stricken legs to bear. The ceiling fan whirred in the background.

While studying abroad, I usually went home in summer. Each time I was back, I found myself having to re-navigate who Popo was. I always thought time worked differently for her, and I drowned myself thinking what could be left of having time steal so much from someone that quickly. That morning when my parents had gone out for work, I noticed how quiet it was. I was first upstairs. My ears were searching for sounds from the living room below, and I panicked when I could not locate Popo’s feet shuffling into her couch, nor the TV chatter.

With the excuse of making myself an earlier breakfast, seeing Popo was reassuring. She was in her usual spot, breathing, still alive. Mortality liked to haunt my imaginations. I was obsessed with tracking the amount of

time I had wasted while I put off reaching out to Popo in the way that I desired.

Noticing my movements, Popo’s head turned toward me. Our gaze met and I stuttered to a question, “W-W-hy did you not turn on the volume?”

Popo smiled. Her shoulders shrugged in slight embarrassment. She rummaged through the piles of things she came to hoard for the remote control which she then lifted with her skinny arm again, signaling me to reach for it.

“I don’t know how to,” she confessed. I stole a quick glance at her and she was smiling. “L-Let me help you,” I said.

I looked for the oval button with the “+” sign and pressed it around 15 times.

“Is this loud enough?”

“Louder.”

“This is okay?”

“A little more,” she nodded her head in politeness as I pressed the button a couple more times, “Okay. Okay. Okay.”

My ears recognized the dramatic background music of the Taiwanese soap opera that Popo loved, or just happened to be, filling her free time with. A show with thousands of episodes on never-ending family feuds and sibling rivalry was not my cup of tea.

“Thank you. Thank you.” She held out her two hands to take the control back from me, head still nodding. I nodded back at her.

Just as I turned and was about to leave, Popo waved a purple packet at me, Lexus biscuits with chocolate cream, one of my childhood favorites.

“Come, take this. Take it upstairs with you and eat. Come.”

“Oh ... thank you,” I reached for the packet; and felt obligated to sit down. I placed my mug of Milo on Popo’s red stool and, after a moment of hesitation, chose a spot on the marble floor right beside where Popo’s feet in pink flip-flops were. Popo beamed at me in delight.

On the screen, a woman in a matching set of gold jewelry was yanking at the hair of another woman also with a matching set of gold jewelry. They tumbled from the desk to the couch, then happened to be back on their feet again to slap across each other’s face. My eyebrows raised at their curious behaviors.

Popo chuckled, something she rarely did while watching the show alone.

“This woman stole her husband. Hit her. Hit her.” Popo chuckled again as another slap landed on the woman’s flushed cheeks.

I let out a chuckle and Popo went along with it to further amuse herself.

“Ah, she deserves it! A bad person, isn’t she?” Popo turned toward me as I nodded, mumbling in agreement. “Very bad, very bad,” she added delightfully.

We engaged in this exchange for the next 15 minutes until the show

switched into intermission. Then I hid my embarrassment behind a smile that I knew Popo would appreciate, and scrambled for an excuse, “I … I am going up to do my homework.” Popo waved and responded heartily, “bye-bye!”

I hope I provided you with good company was my only hope that morning.