“人在千里，家在心里” - 徐子淳
Within the Atlantis of my mind are many chambers, filled with familiar winds,
voices brimming with questions we never stop asking: Papa, where are we? Why aren’t we
home yet? Will we be there soon? to which there are no answers; only doors to other cities,
where the walls are adorned with portraits of here: old teachers and friends, perhaps
even family; the strangers in whom we discover companionship. I meet and know
the old man who used to lean from the window of his flat at ten thirty (invariably during Math),
his gaze stopping short of the shutters of our classroom; the lady selling the morning-
daily at the train station as I find, then make, my way to work; the nurse who will pass,
finally, by my bedside and mark the weeks during those anticipated, graying days.
Some have names: Ali from Muthu’s Curry, whom we always suspected, but couldn’t be sure,
was a brother of the latter; Diane from the bank, whom we have never met, but who sends us
a card and three brochures each time either of us has a birthday; even Mr. Eng
from Father’s hurried past, who turned up when we bade him goodbye. From nowhere
wafts a scent of toothpaste and lemongrass, distinct but unpenetrating, drawing me
through streets at once tender and unknown, strewn with toys I once thought I’d lost:
the copper coin, pressed and printed, that flipped into the drain; the cloth bear Mother hid
once I was old enough to sleep alone; the howling shell washed away by my first brush
with the sea. These are reasons enough to believe that here is not only where I grew up,
but why; that I might, someday, return and know: all there ever is to another place
is selfsame home, through which runs lengthwise a trackless road that finds no rest.
Within the Atlantis of my mind are many chambers, filled with familiar winds,
voices brimming with questions we never stop asking: Papa, where are we? Why aren’t we
home yet? Will we be there soon? to which there are no answers; only doors to other cities,
where the walls are adorned with portraits of here: old teachers and friends, perhaps
even family; the strangers in whom we discover companionship. I meet and know
the old man who used to lean from the window of his flat at ten thirty (invariably during Math),
his gaze stopping short of the shutters of our classroom; the lady selling the morning-
daily at the train station as I find, then make, my way to work; the nurse who will pass,
finally, by my bedside and mark the weeks during those anticipated, graying days.
Some have names: Ali from Muthu’s Curry, whom we always suspected, but couldn’t be sure,
was a brother of the latter; Diane from the bank, whom we have never met, but who sends us
a card and three brochures each time either of us has a birthday; even Mr. Eng
from Father’s hurried past, who turned up when we bade him goodbye. From nowhere
wafts a scent of toothpaste and lemongrass, distinct but unpenetrating, drawing me
through streets at once tender and unknown, strewn with toys I once thought I’d lost:
the copper coin, pressed and printed, that flipped into the drain; the cloth bear Mother hid
once I was old enough to sleep alone; the howling shell washed away by my first brush
with the sea. These are reasons enough to believe that here is not only where I grew up,
but why; that I might, someday, return and know: all there ever is to another place
is selfsame home, through which runs lengthwise a trackless road that finds no rest.
