I unpacked a little today. It's not laziness keeping me from doing it, at least it's not usually laziness. There's nowhere to put things away yet, only the kitchen is furnished and even though no one comes here it feels too strange to keep everything in kitchen cupboards. Mostly I was like a worker ant; carrying things back and forth between little piles. Storage...here...misc...hers. And a large pile of things which I can't bear to have around me any more but want to keep. The shrink calls that avoidance, I call it self-preservation, not becoming Miss Havisham. We laughed at her character at school, just children, not empathy. Now I can see how it would be so easy, safe to stay cocooned in the past.
Heartsick today, not sure why. Much worse these last few days, a tangible, creaking pain in my chest. Nothing's different, same routine for the last three months. Except I finally unpacked my camera yesterday, stripped the memory card and saved the whole lot to an external hard drive, threw that into the guest room. Needless to say, I didn't go in. Haven't taken any pictures in a while, the camera and I used to be inseperable. Even with the empty memory card I kept flicking through, expecting to come across some of them. I remember the last picture I took as clear as anything; the safrole tree that overhang our house, the backdrop to most of my memories of that place.
I packed slowly. There was a crowd in the middle of the village, conspicuously not watching me. Took me a whole day to clear the house, not because there was a lot of things but because everything I picked up suddenly seemed significant. That cracked green bowl took on a strange symbolism, spoke of every morning that we lived there, the soothing ritual of waking her with tea. The look on her face when I said we should just throw it out after it cracked. We kept it of course, fool for her.
When it was time to leave, I was at a loss. I went out to throw the bags in the truck, the crowd had gone, chased off by a friend. A lotus flower left on the steps. Stricken. Never coming back here, to this place. Pump water for the last time, flakes of rust sticking to damp palms, squeal of rusty metal. Get a can of oil from the truck and fix the pump, leave the can. They're gone and this is what you do? Fix the damn pump? She'd never have let me go without doing it. Take the little green bowl out to the safrole tree, float the lotus flower. Their ashes will be in the Netherlands, I'll be in London, our home is here. This is the best place to leave things. Snap a picture of the tree, not sure why. Look at the last picture on the camera; it's them, of course. She's standing in the river, waist deep, swinging a little girl up into the air, drops of water trailing from kicking feet.
As soon as I turn over the engine there is a rushing of people, banging of doors. Heng is at the front of the group, I've left some things in the school-room, I say; can't meet his eye. He hugs me tightly "we will miss you teacher, the three of you."
Heartsick.
Heartsick today, not sure why. Much worse these last few days, a tangible, creaking pain in my chest. Nothing's different, same routine for the last three months. Except I finally unpacked my camera yesterday, stripped the memory card and saved the whole lot to an external hard drive, threw that into the guest room. Needless to say, I didn't go in. Haven't taken any pictures in a while, the camera and I used to be inseperable. Even with the empty memory card I kept flicking through, expecting to come across some of them. I remember the last picture I took as clear as anything; the safrole tree that overhang our house, the backdrop to most of my memories of that place.
I packed slowly. There was a crowd in the middle of the village, conspicuously not watching me. Took me a whole day to clear the house, not because there was a lot of things but because everything I picked up suddenly seemed significant. That cracked green bowl took on a strange symbolism, spoke of every morning that we lived there, the soothing ritual of waking her with tea. The look on her face when I said we should just throw it out after it cracked. We kept it of course, fool for her.
When it was time to leave, I was at a loss. I went out to throw the bags in the truck, the crowd had gone, chased off by a friend. A lotus flower left on the steps. Stricken. Never coming back here, to this place. Pump water for the last time, flakes of rust sticking to damp palms, squeal of rusty metal. Get a can of oil from the truck and fix the pump, leave the can. They're gone and this is what you do? Fix the damn pump? She'd never have let me go without doing it. Take the little green bowl out to the safrole tree, float the lotus flower. Their ashes will be in the Netherlands, I'll be in London, our home is here. This is the best place to leave things. Snap a picture of the tree, not sure why. Look at the last picture on the camera; it's them, of course. She's standing in the river, waist deep, swinging a little girl up into the air, drops of water trailing from kicking feet.
As soon as I turn over the engine there is a rushing of people, banging of doors. Heng is at the front of the group, I've left some things in the school-room, I say; can't meet his eye. He hugs me tightly "we will miss you teacher, the three of you."
Heartsick.
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