Warmth of the Heart
I'd usually be the second in the household to arise, when I was attending morning school. Grandma was first. As I wrapped myself in the comfort of my towel, and grabbed my toiletries housed in a cheap blue pail, between half sleep and consciousness, I'd trudge down the stairs, to the rear of the kampung house, for my bath. The wooden house, greeted mornings with a cool silent air about it, on the verge of chilly.
I'd stop just before the bathroom entrance, peer at the water heater switch, just to ensure that Grandma has switched it on earlier. It was one of the primitive water heaters, that needed at least 15 minutes to heat the water up to an acceptable heat. As usual, Grandma would be busy in the kitchen just outside the bathrooms, preparing breakfast. She'd always ask me what I wanted. I was pretty mechanical in my choice. It was either cornflakes with chocolate milk, or white Chinese bread (the soft fluffy ones that is shaped like a keyhole) with peanut butter.
My routine was fixed. Bathe. Dress up. Lug my bag to the front entrance. And as I was putting on my shoes, I'd usually take a few inquisitive moments to awe and gasp at the vast, dark sky, littered with stars. I still remember how deeply intrigued I was at the North Star (I only knew it was the North Star when I was in my late teens). Larger than the rest, it seemed to draw my gaze with forceful magnetic charm.
I'd then take a short walk via the garden to the backyard where the kitchen was and sit quietly consuming my breakfast. Grandma would be busy preparing breakfast for the rest of the household, and she went about her tasks briskly, without a word.
Once done, Grandma would walk with me toward the front gate. We'll sit down on the stone bench, and wait for the bus. In these few moments, we'll have a decent conversation. From school, to exams, to friends, to comforting advice, these moments now gone, I treasure most, for I felt warmth in the heart.
On days where she had extra pocket money, she'd try to shove it in my pocket or school bag but I'd usually decline. I usually won in that duel. There was once though, if I remembered correctly, that I really wanted to purchase some extra Flag erasers and succumbed.
It was a dollar. An old blue one-dollar note. Which is not in circulation anymore. Somehow, I wasn't sure why or what crossed my mind, but I never got to spending that dollar. It wasn't conscious on my part to preserve that note, but today, I choose to believe that perhaps a mystical force was at work.
It was only recently that I realised, nestling within my jar of loose change, rests that same one-dollar note. Still half crisp, with minimal decolourisation. As I am writing this, the night remains still. The sky painted black, adorned with the glitter of stars. And I still am intrigued by the thought of gazing into a dark open sky, searching for the North Star. Sadly though tonight, it chose to abandon my gaze.
I switched my focus back toward the dollar note in the jar, and I felt that familiar warmth in my heart.
