mother, 2022

A reclining figure; a small woman in my old blue jumper, and blue jeans given to her from a friend. Her whole outfit is from the Gap. She lies back, lazily propped up by five pillows of different sizes and fabrics. Her legs rest on a small table that used to be for her children when they were young. Her feet are bare and only a toe peeks over an unmarked, white box. Her posture looks boneless, but her expression is angry and determined. She’s on the phone, a hand-me-down white iPhone 5C in a purple phone case. Her favourite colour. Her words are loud and quick. Though the person she speaks to can’t see her, her wrist rises up and down with her argument; fingers pointing, her silver bangle glinting in the down lights. Her black and grey hair is wound up in her usual style—pulled back and held up by a plastic clip we bought in Hong Kong for a few cents. In front of her, on the repurposed kids table, is a mess of objects: an empty candle jar, an unused phone stand, a gold cardboard box that used to hold a bouquet of flowers now contains a mess of acrylic beaded necklaces, a Malteser-branded mug, an orange rubber bracelet I’ve never see anyone wear, an Ikea instruction booklet, her laptop, a corner of a matchbox, a paper fan, another hand-me-down iPhone, a packet of candied chestnuts, a tissue box, used tissues, a pen, a piece of wood, an empty plastic sleeve, something wrapped in brown paper and terracotta elastic bands, her glasses, and a back scratcher. She sits up, but her expression remains agitated. And the Uniqlo x Peanuts blanket falls off her shoulder. Her skin is smooth with one brown sunspot on her left cheek. Her nose is short like mine, and she has two small moles next to her eye like me… I don’t remember noticing them before. She smirks a little, feeling my gaze. I start laughing. 

text, 334 words.