It’s 2 a.m.
I shut my laptop and removed my earbuds. My international video-call meeting was over. I checked to see when my next meeting was scheduled. According to my alert reminders, I had another meeting in an hour.
I decided to take a nap, then wondered if I shouldn’t since there was only an hour left. It would be better to check my presentation slides, since this was the one client who I’d never been able to close a deal with. It reminded me of the phrase he used with me so often, “I like it. You hit it right on the brief. Your work is cool as usual, but…” and then all the other uncool comments would come flooding out. I could just see the words wash over me from the other end of the connection. It’s a good thing we live on two different sides of the world.
It’s 2 a.m.
Bustling noises came from my mother’s room, right on the dot as if she had set an alarm. I wonder sometimes, despite her memory loss, how she can remember to wake up precisely on time. However, she can’t remember that at 2 a.m. she should be sleeping, not waking up and walking around. Despite it being 2 a.m. here, on the other side of the world, it’s still working hours, so here I am working. It’s hopeless to think that she’ll remember any of this.
“Oak, honey. Come help me with this.”
At least she remembers my name.
It’s 2 a.m.
The Victorian off-white porcelain clock with yellow daffodils on its face has always been on my mother’s bedstand, ever since I can remember. It’s always told the time, just like the Apple Watch on my wrist.
“Where did my letter go?” my mother asked as she opened a drawer and poured the contents out, on top of all the other items now piled on the floor of the bedroom. She’s been searching for this letter for quite some time now. Mum was sitting in the middle of a pile of old bills, pictures and postcards from her travels. Mixed in the pile were also postcards and letters that she had insisted I write to her when I was living in Chicago.
“I just wrote it and put it on the bedstand. Where did it go? I finished writing it and was going to send it. Where did it go? Go get Em! Help me look for it, right now! Em, come look for my letter right now. This girl! When you need her, she’s nowhere to be found. Em! Em!”
Mum couln’t remember that Aunty Em, doesn’t live with us anymore.
“Mr. Oat, I really can’t take it anymore. Madam won’t sleep. She finds fault with everything I do and constantly scolds me. I’m exhausted and stressed out. I’m quite old now. Though I love your mum, I can’t go on.”
These are the words of Aunty Em, Mum’s housekeeper who had been with our family for decades, and had been my nanny ever since I was born. Em left our family and the time that she spent with Mum as her confidante has disappeared, just like the good memories she left with us.
“I’ll help you Mum. You should get some sleep. You haven’t slept, have you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You’re just joking, right?”
I can’t help laugh to myself about her memory loss. Before I even had the chance to ask her about the letter she was looking for, she had already fallen asleep.
It’s 2 a.m.
This has become the normal time when Mum goes to sleep, ever since she became elderly. The clock doesn’t care that this the time when I work, even if I should also be asleep too.
I stared at Mum’s porcelain clock and mused how an old clock keeps on moving forward no matter what. It doesn’t need any rest, but we humans need to sleep.
It was this clock that Aunty Em set the alarm for 8 p.m., to remind Mum to take her medicine before bedtime. It was this clock that became the last straw in their life-long relationship for Aunty Em, the one person who has always taken the brunt of Mum’s mood swings. She finally quit.
Thinking back, I find it funny how things have turned for these two elderlies. They were once so close, having helped each other through thick and thin, trusted one another more than just an employer and employee. Actually, Aunty Em and Mum are best friends that loved and understood one another more than anyone else, even her own child.
I see the two of them upset with each other, one complaining about being unable to find something all the time and blaming the other person, while the one being blamed can be found sitting in the kitchen trying to eat plain rice with tears pouring down her face.
It’s 2 a.m.
“What was I looking for again? Oh…a letter. My memory is starting to fail me.”
“What letter? Why do I need to find it?”
It’s 2 a.m.
I shut my laptop and removed my earbuds. My international video-call meeting was over. I checked to see when my next meeting was scheduled. According to my alert reminders, I had another meeting in an hour.
I decided to take a nap, then wondered if I shouldn’t since there was only an hour left. It would be better to check my presentation slides, since this was the one client who I’d never been able to close a deal with. It reminded me of the phrase he used with me so often, “I like it. You hit it right on the brief. Your work is cool as usual, but…” and then all the other uncool comments would come flooding out. I could just see the words wash over me from the other end of the connection. It’s a good thing we live on two different sides of the world.
It’s 2 a.m.
Bustling noises came from my mother’s room, right on the dot as if she had set an alarm. I wonder sometimes, despite her memory loss, how she can remember to wake up precisely on time. However, she can’t remember that at 2 a.m. she should be sleeping, not waking up and walking around. Despite it being 2 a.m. here, on the other side of the world, it’s still working hours, so here I am working. It’s hopeless to think that she’ll remember any of this.
“Oak, honey. Come help me with this.”
At least she remembers my name.
It’s 2 a.m.
The Victorian off-white porcelain clock with yellow daffodils on its face has always been on my mother’s bedstand, ever since I can remember. It’s always told the time, just like the Apple Watch on my wrist.
“Where did my letter go?” my mother asked as she opened a drawer and poured the contents out, on top of all the other items now piled on the floor of the bedroom. She’s been searching for this letter for quite some time now. Mum was sitting in the middle of a pile of old bills, pictures and postcards from her travels. Mixed in the pile were also postcards and letters that she had insisted I write to her when I was living in Chicago.
“I just wrote it and put it on the bedstand. Where did it go? I finished writing it and was going to send it. Where did it go? Go get Em! Help me look for it, right now! Em, come look for my letter right now. This girl! When you need her, she’s nowhere to be found. Em! Em!”
Mum couln’t remember that Aunty Em, doesn’t live with us anymore.
“Mr. Oat, I really can’t take it anymore. Madam won’t sleep. She finds fault with everything I do and constantly scolds me. I’m exhausted and stressed out. I’m quite old now. Though I love your mum, I can’t go on.”
These are the words of Aunty Em, Mum’s housekeeper who had been with our family for decades, and had been my nanny ever since I was born. Em left our family and the time that she spent with Mum as her confidante has disappeared, just like the good memories she left with us.
“I’ll help you Mum. You should get some sleep. You haven’t slept, have you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You’re just joking, right?”
I can’t help laugh to myself about her memory loss. Before I even had the chance to ask her about the letter she was looking for, she had already fallen asleep.
It’s 2 a.m.
This has become the normal time when Mum goes to sleep, ever since she became elderly. The clock doesn’t care that this the time when I work, even if I should also be asleep too.
I stared at Mum’s porcelain clock and mused how an old clock keeps on moving forward no matter what. It doesn’t need any rest, but we humans need to sleep.
It was this clock that Aunty Em set the alarm for 8 p.m., to remind Mum to take her medicine before bedtime. It was this clock that became the last straw in their life-long relationship for Aunty Em, the one person who has always taken the brunt of Mum’s mood swings. She finally quit.
Thinking back, I find it funny how things have turned for these two elderlies. They were once so close, having helped each other through thick and thin, trusted one another more than just an employer and employee. Actually, Aunty Em and Mum are best friends that loved and understood one another more than anyone else, even her own child.
I see the two of them upset with each other, one complaining about being unable to find something all the time and blaming the other person, while the one being blamed can be found sitting in the kitchen trying to eat plain rice with tears pouring down her face.
It’s 2 a.m.
“What was I looking for again? Oh…a letter. My memory is starting to fail me.”
“What letter? Why do I need to find it?”