One
Christmas,
Mum asks me
to read out my prize-
winning poem from the school
writing competition. Obviously, she’s
very proud of me, more than I am of myself.
My uncle and aunt stop talking, all eyes on me.
My cousin opens his big mouth, showing crooked teeth,
as if to say, you are done for. Now I’m standing in front of
the Christmas tree, the one Mum struggled to get out of the loft
the day before, in display just for a few days and then quickly tucked
away. It’s covered with silver tinsels, red baubles and twinkling lights. On
its feet lie boxes of different shapes and sizes that await discovery. But what about
the tree?
Its colour has
Faded, its plastic needles
gone dry. Having lived a hidden
life for years, it must’ve been enjoying
its privacy, solitude, insignificance. How did it feel
when it was suddenly dressed up and moved to the centre
stage? Did its face turn red, palms sweat, and legs shake? Does it
feel well enough to perform? The thing is, I happened to have written
a few broken lines about my dream and that was nine months ago. My dream
has since changed. Why do they still hang on to the old stuff, wanting to hear me read
that poem?
It’s embarrassing.
Why can’t people just
leave me alone? Why is Mum
so eager to show me off in front
of everyone else? She must think I’m no
longer that timid, introvert boy good at neither
maths nor sports. She must want to prove to her relatives
that she can bring up a child without having to rely on a man, that
heartless man who walked out of his home several years ago, never to return.
But will the show make me smarter, braver, more confident? Will it make my loss, our
loss, less painful? Now my uncle and aunt are clapping, beaming, showering sweet words.
My cousin
is rolling his eyes.
I return to my seat, wishing
there would be a crack on the floor.
Now everyone is eating and drinking and
talking about something else. They’ve totally
forgotten about me and the tree. Its lights have dimmed,
its boughs are hanging low. Is it sighing? Is it weeping? Does it
also hate the limelight, the brief moment of pretended glory? Does it
miss the loft where it enjoyed so much freedom of simply being left alone?