Rayong. In My Life

It dawns on me, as I sit crammed among jumbled bags and suitcases, pillows and duvets; this is truly it. The life that existed mere hours ago is over, all I have ever known. Gone. A chalk line has been drawn, delineating what was ‘then’ and what is ‘now’. Life has begun anew, a division created between everything I have ever known, and this strange unknown.

Future turned present, present turned past.

The ball of tension gnawing between my brows tightens at the thought. Thud. As the car turns, mountains of my luggage topple into me, pushing and shoving onto my shoulder and lap. I jostle the cases back into place despite their unwilling nature, and bundle myself up in the solace of my cosy quilt. It reminds me of home.

Faded after years of wear and tear, I brush my fingertips along its intricate butterfly pattern. Each butterfly, fluttering with its gossamer wings and curling antennae, is delicately sewn in bright, childlike colours; poppy red, pea green, daffodil yellow. I imagine what colour their cocoons would’ve been; would they have matched the vivid, joyful hues of their wings? Or, perhaps they began as humble, plain things before they hatched into their new, vibrant forms?

Pressing my nose into the soft cotton, I inhale the familiar scent. The intimate smell of cheap washing powder; of curling into my bed at night, and putting on my freshly-washed uniform in the morning; of hugging my mum tightly and not letting go; of hanging washing on the line in our tiny green garden. Home - my home.

Memories swarm me, threatening to swallow me whole. I can’t return. I feel strangely sick, as if the memories themselves are crawling out of my stomach, slithering into my chest, my throat. It gives me a strange taste in my mouth, bitter and nostalgic. My hands itch for a toothbrush to scrub it away and swallow it down.

Yet, this feeling is no stranger. This suffocating, allconsuming sickness threatening to engulf me is almost dear to me, a time-old acquaintance. Again and again, the rapid rhythm of my heart drumming against my ribcage, the acute tightening of my chest. And then, the feeling of profound nausea slithering in. Anxiety, they told me.

Oftentimes, it would flare up at night. To soothe me, Mum would tell me it was just “butterflies in my stomach”. To me, it always felt more like cockroaches. But I still took her words to heart; I’d scrunch my eyes shut and imagine the beautiful spring-coloured creatures from my duvet, gracefully flitting about my stomach and chest, as if somehow it would lessen the vile feeling. It never did.

YEARS 10 -13

My stomach churns. I take deep breaths and count to ten; in and out, in and out. Resting my head against the cases, I stare out the window and watch the landscape pass by. The world outside is blurred, abundant bushes and trees quickly reduced to greenish streaks across my sight. I pretend I am at home, sitting in my comfy chair, and that the small window of scenery before me is merely the screen of a television. Slowly, the tension in my chest slackens a shade.

A short while passes and I start to feel drained, the stresses of the day settling in. My eyes flutter shut, and I drift along to the sound of my mother’s rhythmic tapping against the wheel; tap, tap, tap. I focus my ears on her soft voice as she hums to the song rattling quietly out of the car’s speakers.

“All these places have their moments With lovers and friends, I still can recall

My eyelids gradually drift shut little by little, lulled by the melody. It casts me back to a time abandoned. In my mind a picture forms- our old house, with its tattered, red-brick walls and crumbling fence. I think of the gentle sun warming my face as I sit splayed out on the deckchair of our overgrown garden, with its crooked washing line, and weeds and grass and flowers tumbling freely over the stone wall. I think of the battered red radio, which would only work after a few knocks on the head and a specific twist of the dial. I think of its tunes filling the air of a hot summer's day, joining the chirping of crickets and cicadas. I bid my farewells to the place of my childhood, where tears were shed and laughs shared.

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I've loved them all”

The image fades. It’s replaced by a blurry depiction, brought to life by the thought of where I am headed. I envision my new college, the feeling of my feet clattering up its steps on my first day. Visions of my new uniform, perhaps a deep navy or a cool burgundy, the way it might feel as I wear it; soft or cosy or thick or itchy? All kinds of shifting shapes and forms dance behind my eyelids, burst forth. I contemplate my new home - would it have a garden, much like our old one?

Despite my efforts, I can’t seem to grasp a concrete image, an idea, of what it could look like, only a fluctuating array of possibilities. And yet, unlike earlier, the thought doesn’t spiral into fear. The unknown seems a touch more welcoming, something kinder. Taking the final step over that line, the step into a future of boundless opportunities. Emerging from my shell of adolescence, bringing to life a new self, a new me. Mere hours away from what I had vaguely marked “distant future”, I feel the heavy loss of a past self.

In a sense, I suppose, meaning lies in moving on, saying goodbye.