We spent so many Sundays together and with your hand clutched onto my arm, I could walk with not even an eye open.

In the dirty market in the early morn. Our pouches filled with citrus delights: oranges, melons, tangerines. Upon the sidewalk, we’d sit on benches to peel their skins, suck the juice, spew the seeds. Often I’d say, “Bitter!” You’d say, “Sweet!”

Lunch at the barbeque stall along the highway. We smiled to each other as cars and jeepneys travelled by. We gave slices to stray cats; some sprinkled on the ground, some served by hand.

The afternoon was for the city park. We liked to roam around the field of much green, streetsides lined with sunflowers.

But on this Sunday, all I can stomach is some cheaply-priced bread. A stiff, tasteless dough, the size of your fist.

At the stall, I only make it to see the cats but nothing to find there except burnt sticks shredding from passersby steps.

And I can’t look at the park. Instead, I find myself sitting in someone’s garden, facing these wilted roses and furling forget-me-nots.


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