APPLAUSE
Singapore, 2024
Rush hour on a Thursday. The passing remarks of those that surround you revolt me—some belonging to ones who now don the same uniforms I once wore. Your little dance slows down to a halt. In the heat and buzz of the cabin, I burn. Nietzche’s comment on shallow humanity bubbles up in my mind: in this case, almost too literal. I am absolutely ashamed.
Young one, may melodies never cease to resound in your mind. Continue to sway, hum, move. I was amazed to watch you today, in a concert of your own. I only wish I could have given you applause before you left so hurriedly.
London, 2025
A walk back to the flat on a Wednesday evening, past the pottery studio. I see your trembling hands quieten at the touch of the clay. Your usual empty gaze is filled with glimmer. Then they all run past, cold laughter piercing through the spring breeze. Mock the trolley beside you that carries a home. Your hands pause and fold over themselves. Abandoned clay. From across the street, I burn.
I watch your haphazard packing of loose clothing and blankets before you quickly hobble away. You leave behind the sculpture of the hand you were making: a weathered, rough palm outstretched. As if in wait for a gentle caressing, another hand to hold. I look down at my own, poised to give you applause but unable to reach you in time.