I grew up in a wonderful place of privilege. In ’98 we moved out to Malaysia, and I wasn’t to leave the penthouse comforts until graduating in 2011.
“Home” is too complex a word for me to apply here. There are questions of culture, of safety. Questions of “do I ache to be back there, when I am away for too long?” and questions of acceptance. A house is not a home, nor is a skyline or cloudscape.
This must be close though.
There is a sweetness I associate with watching the sun rise through the cracks in my curtain. Always a soft pink and gold. So easy for me to stay up, sleepless, to knee-shuffle across my bed and spread my black (but not blackout) curtains, and just watch. The Malaysian sky, remembered from my bedroom window or balcony, is something I will not let go of.
It is intricately linked with time; early starts for school, catching the 7AM bus five mornings a week. With evenings at the pool, gym, or tennis court. With mania and wide eyes; with tears; with questions of god and grandma. Too many memories to forget the sky.
New Year was lonely, even with a bright sky. Pretty though, very pretty. A good, if quiet, way to bring in 2015.