The Other Room

Dearest pretty girl,

Jesus. Aren’t you a tough kid! It’s really good, honestly, that survival skill is all you’d need if you could tell me what you’re going through now is a small problem compared to those a lot bigger that is about to come in your way. I respect that.

Alright, we got this. Was dinner good?

I know it must have felt horrible to feel tortured, clueless and have your soul ripped out of your bones when something bigger than you took over your very being, and your life suddenly became not one for you to hold. I saw pain contained in those eyes, but I can only know mine I warn.

Food feels like a chore, alright we got this. I heard you tapping the dinning, poking chicken skin with a spoon because it felt alone. Not until I came out of my room I suppose. God, not another person to talk to, to be nice with, to smile and be as human as one can be. Isn’t it? It was written all over your face. Listen, ok.

The first time my mother said I was pretty, I had turned twenty-six years old. You are pretty, and you are hardworking and I lucked out for telling you the answers you couldn’t give at exam today.

I am afraid too. Did you not think stabbing the spoon on a brown paper laid out on hardwood didn’t make me die out straight in my room? I still have problems, honey. I ain’t going to sit here talking about sad things. You act all tough don’t you, why not you tell me why boys are just boys. And people can’t love me, and why the ugly parts of me wants to buy another skincare cream? And, lets not get started on nudity please. What is this two people coming together pro-creating just because I like a hard thing in between me? You don’t get it, miss entitled women like me have many problems not just big problems. Yes, just.

What do we do when we are tormented, when things can’t be changed, and relationships can’t be fixed? We sit through the loneliness and scare the shit out of the new girl who just moved in. That sounds like the most perfect plan to me.

All these teacher thing doesn’t roll with me. Would you kill me instead because I have no idea about half the things I say in broad daylight robbing your parents’ money. I am just using this to my own delight. I experience it, people around me saying to you, “she’s a teacher, show your respect” –– it’s quite nice and nerve-wrecking but, whatever. Fine. My audacity is as uncanny as yours. Most times, I’m just winging it.

Once I asked my mom, “ma, why don’t anyone ask how are you anymore?” and she said, “such simple words isn’t it?” but her greatest memory is always that one time, the doctor gave her a pat for tearing up her vagina popping out a child. “Good job!” she said.

Simple words are hard to find for you. I am a writer. That’s what I know. I have a magic pouch of mother kangaroo I usually dig into to give it to you. I do this consciously, of course because I am poor! Maybe you don’t see how rich I am. You are feeling it. In the other room, so you are going to deal with it because there will be bigger problems.

Given a choice, I would start with some manners if a group of feminists promises not to come hunting me for my seeming missionary. I say I am a hindu and then I add in the buddhist because the Buddha quite possibly could be the best boyfriend ever, not until he finds out I was listening to the Surah this Friday evening when I prostrated like a nun arranging books. When I heard a strange woman scream and the hair behind my neck stood still. Now you see why I don’t appreciate this spoon stabbing thing that is happening.

The next time you lie to me. It better be a prank, like people who say they’d kill themselves. Say it with me, “GO DIE LA WEI!”

Be good now, sleep tight. Get comfy and forget everything. Forgiveness is solely the job of your heart, it is never you. Future problems are bigger monsters and I would like to see you sitting for all your exams just like how I’d have to.

It’s never over, my monster.

Lots of love, the other other room.