It's hard now, to remember what I was like before her. We met when I was 20 (and she 17); I spent longer as an adult with her than I have done without her. We changed a lot, I think everyone does between 18 and 25 or so, which means all the things I thought I knew about myself, simple things, likes and dislikes...they're all tied up with her. Anything I tried, she was sure I could do.
Even when I found myself straddling the roof ridge of our crappy wooden house, trying to hammer down fresh sheets of corrugated iron in the pouring rain. Half-drowned by the time I came down at 3am, one hour until I had to wake up for school. Dragging myself from bed that morning, cotton sheets twisted around her legs, tendrils of hair curling across her neck, salt tang of her skin and low murmuring before she relinquished her hold on my arm. Outside, humid already, sound of the village waking, a tiny kid hanging from the rusting pump handle, not heavy enough to draw water. I pump the handle for her, wide brown eyes watching me as she splashes her face, her feet, cups her hands and tosses the water at me as she darts into her house, one arm lagging as she drags the bucket behind her. Wash quickly, bare-chested, bare feet, sampot. Fill the bucket, hauling it back up the stairs to light the gas ring, pot of tea. Shaving in a mirror propped in a corner of the veranda.
Smell of ginger and lemongrass tea draws her from the bed, hair heaped on her head, stretching like a cat in the sunrise. Laughing, poking me in the ribs, sipping tea from a cracked green bowl, twisting away from my questing fingers and lips until she's washed, setting her tea on the steps, brushing her teeth and gazing intently at herself in the shaving mirror. Pack up the books, marked the evening before, and stack of papers. Dislike the feel of paper in the heat and humidity; damp, limp, fragile. Clean shirt, linen trousers, flip flops, already too hot in the first uneasy fingers of dawn. She's finishing her tea on the steps, chattering in Khmer with the girl next door, the advance scout of my escort party to school. Standing, arm wrapped around her waist, brief kiss to the cheek but that's not enough. She holds my cane behind her back, pouting. Tickle her, one hand ready and waiting...catch the falling tea bowl and hold it up, grinning. She tugs my shirt down, tastes of ginger and lemongrass, young girl behind us is laughing "teacher, teacher! On your roof!" I look up.
Left the damn hammer on the roof.
Even when I found myself straddling the roof ridge of our crappy wooden house, trying to hammer down fresh sheets of corrugated iron in the pouring rain. Half-drowned by the time I came down at 3am, one hour until I had to wake up for school. Dragging myself from bed that morning, cotton sheets twisted around her legs, tendrils of hair curling across her neck, salt tang of her skin and low murmuring before she relinquished her hold on my arm. Outside, humid already, sound of the village waking, a tiny kid hanging from the rusting pump handle, not heavy enough to draw water. I pump the handle for her, wide brown eyes watching me as she splashes her face, her feet, cups her hands and tosses the water at me as she darts into her house, one arm lagging as she drags the bucket behind her. Wash quickly, bare-chested, bare feet, sampot. Fill the bucket, hauling it back up the stairs to light the gas ring, pot of tea. Shaving in a mirror propped in a corner of the veranda.
Smell of ginger and lemongrass tea draws her from the bed, hair heaped on her head, stretching like a cat in the sunrise. Laughing, poking me in the ribs, sipping tea from a cracked green bowl, twisting away from my questing fingers and lips until she's washed, setting her tea on the steps, brushing her teeth and gazing intently at herself in the shaving mirror. Pack up the books, marked the evening before, and stack of papers. Dislike the feel of paper in the heat and humidity; damp, limp, fragile. Clean shirt, linen trousers, flip flops, already too hot in the first uneasy fingers of dawn. She's finishing her tea on the steps, chattering in Khmer with the girl next door, the advance scout of my escort party to school. Standing, arm wrapped around her waist, brief kiss to the cheek but that's not enough. She holds my cane behind her back, pouting. Tickle her, one hand ready and waiting...catch the falling tea bowl and hold it up, grinning. She tugs my shirt down, tastes of ginger and lemongrass, young girl behind us is laughing "teacher, teacher! On your roof!" I look up.
Left the damn hammer on the roof.
This is just beautiful.
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