Allison's Archives

The basket grows laden with groceries in the crook of my arm and inertia proves a burden as I make a swift turn into the next aisle. My eyes dart up and down the messily scribbled grocery list between my fingers in an attempt to hunt down what hasn’t yet been placed in my basket. In my carelessness, I bump into somebody.

Aiya!

A little voice called out. Nasally and high pitched, with its innocence intact. 

I watch in slow motion as a mini carton of opened milk hurls through the air and lands unceremoniously, spilling out on the ground and seemingly seeping through the epoxy floor. The unfortunate victim of the incident looks toward the pool of white before looking up at me, pigtails swinging beside her face as she whips her head around. It takes me a second to register what I have done, but—remembering I am the adult in this situation—I snap back into action. 

I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going! Where are your parents?

It’s okay, it’s just milk. No use fussing over it. 

She completely ignores my question and gazes past me. I follow her direction and see that she has spotted a shop worker. She points at the spill with her left hand and raises her right, loudly goes: 

Excuse me! Can we get clean up on aisle 23, please?

I am colored impressed on the spot. There is no trace of fear in the eyes of this child—I wonder momentarily if it is because she hasn’t seen much of the world or she has seen too much. I reach into the fridge and pull out a mini carton of chocolate milk to hand to her, figuring she would appreciate a different flavor that doesn’t remind her of the tragedy. Then, I add one to my basket as well.

I’m sorry for knocking that out of your hand. Here you go—this is one of my favorites.

Thank you! She giggles, punches the straw into the carton, and slurps. 

What’s your name? Are your parents nearby?

I perform a quick scan but no one else seems to be around. 

You can call me CJ. 

Then, it clicks in my head. Staring at that young face that I’ve familiarized myself with through photo albums, I can tell she knows. Our gut instincts have always been strong.

She slurps some more as if someone is going to steal the milk right out of her hands. Then, she turns the milk carton around and takes a hard glance at the packaging.

What happened to Milo being our default choice of chocolate milk? 

Milo is so expensive here! This is the second best thing I could find.

What do you mean ‘here’? Are we not still back home in Malaysia? 

She does a frantic scan of her surroundings, but, then again, all grocery stores look the same no matter where you are. 

No, we made it to the UK for university and now we’re working here!

What happened to the US? 

In another life. 

She takes another gulp of the chocolate milk, this time with greater appreciation for a foreign flavor. 

Did you just come from the gym? 

I realize she has been eyeing my poorly coordinated outfit: a sports bra under a windbreaker and the nearest pair of leggings I could snatch on the way out. 

What gives? 

She giggles some more. 

You look healthy. Like you’ve been taking care of yourself better. 

She pauses, then adds:

You look pretty. 

You think so? 

Yeah! Do you not? 

Not until recently, no. 

You look like our parents. And they’re pretty. 

This time, I laugh. 

She peers her head into my basket like any curious child and I hold back a sigh of loss, wondering where my own curiosity had gone. 

What d’ya have in that basket? 

Oh, bits and bobs, you know. Just the usual weekly grocery run. 

And groceries include a Cosmo magazine? What happened to the comics we used to read in school?

A cheeky frown starts to form as she forcefully pouts.  

Well, that is what starts our love for storytelling, yes, but we eventually grow out of that into novels and now magazines too. Magazines are another level of fascinating, a blend of text, images, colors, and stories. There are more elements to consider and it’s a good exercise for creativity. Inspires me with fresh ideas for work. 

How does a magazine help with your work in banking? 

Oh, we’re not in banking. 

I notice the resolution in my own voice as I say this.

We’re not?!

Not anymore. We tried it for two summers and decided it just wasn’t for us. And that’s okay. Society’s definition of a successful career doesn’t have to be adopted by us—and this goes for a lot in life. 

Wasn’t it scary? Changing your life trajectory at this age? 

When I’m only twenty-three? Come on now, I’m still learning how to live, to be happy, and to make the most out of my time here. I’m not rushing to make a Forbes list or have my own Wikipedia page. It’s a privilege to wake up grateful every day. 

Whoa. So we’re out of banking? 

Yeah! We have a job in marketing now. We get to be on tons of creative projects and work with the most amazing people you can imagine. It’s the kind of work that gives meaning to life and helps you see the best in people. I know thinking of a career in banking has always made you anxious and unlike yourself, but you don’t have to be scared anymore. It all works out. 

Whoa. 

She snaps back for another sip of the chocolate milk—priority, of course. Some things never change.

How much did we lose? 

What do you mean? 

I cock my head to the side while setting my basket down. This conversation is going to take a while. It can take up all my life if it has to. 

How much of ourselves do we lose before we start living for just us and not somebody else? 

A lot. Too much, actually. 

Oh. 

A pause. The silent seeps in like it did when we were younger and being rocked to sleep in the cradle in our grandmother’s house. 

But at least there was a stopping point. It’s the kind of lesson where there isn’t an age where it’s too late to learn. We’ve come so far and built a life for ourselves. We have a bed with pink sheets and a desk to write at!

We still write?

Her eyes widen and glisten like the first fall of snow.

We can never stop even if we tried.

She doesn’t reply to that statement but smiles at me. The kind of smile that screams “I made it. The world doesn’t need to know but I made it.”

So, that’s an awful lot of ingredients. Since when did you learn to cook? 

The silence is banished. She is ever the champion at making noise to fill space in the best way, despite years of being told off by teachers.

Well, it’s been quite the journey but once we learn to take life slow, we come to realize it’s worth putting the extra effort into the small things, even if they’ll be gone in a couple bites. 

What are you making?

Chicken curry, actually. And some kind of pasta down the week. 

Curry?! 

Yeah! Our spice tolerance gets better eventually, I promise. People will make fun of you for it for a while but it’s better for your weakness to just be spice than something more detrimental. 

Two boxes of chicken thighs—are you going to finish all that on your own? That’s a lot of food there.

I’m cooking for two. 

Same one as before? 

No, actually. Thankfully. Someone I don’t need to translate myself to. Someone kind and patient who holds doors and the weight on our shoulders.

Oh, that sounds nice. I wonder what it will be like when we can momentarily put down the weight of the world on our shoulders. 

There are moments of that happening: When you’re in bed with a book, when you’re waiting for the pan to heat up, when you’re walking in good weather, when you find a new issue of Cosmo in Sainsbury, when your friends back home call…but eventually we have to pick the weight back up.

I know.

You never stop being the eldest daughter, you know? 

I know. 

But it gets easier with time. Everything does. 

Before it gets tough again? 

Before it gets tough again. 

But do we get tougher? 

We do. Have been for twenty-three years now. 

She looks up at me, empty milk carton swinging in her tiny hands, and says,

I’m proud of you. 

---

Twenty-three is quiet. Subtle. It ripples but does not make waves. It’s a dance, not a war. I have spent so many years learning and now I’m applying, living. I’m done being broken and I’m ready to write love into existence, even if it draws blood.

I’m not bending over backwards to give myself love or forgiveness anymore. I’m giving myself time. Time to figure things out. Time to hold the hands of the child I once was. Time to sit at my desk until the words come to me. Time to linger in the aisles of grocery stores, make messes, and collect the items on my list. Time doesn’t have me. I have time.