The house of smoke

These are some of the thoughts I had after a CIP session at an old one-room HDB flat in Chinatown.

The old man guards his home
Awaiting his Wife’s return. He throws nothing away,
Even though this is a nest unsuitable for the patient,
The Doctors said. He does not listen because he was not counting on
Them, where the land under their reign of convoluted jargon
Is too parched for any miracles to grow into a forest. Instead
He prays for her health.
That will work better than any prescriptions. He
Carefully whispers them into the breath of incense smoke that
Clouds the house. Have no doubt about his resolution,
They have grown stubborn in desperation: it took a whole day
And many pairs of hands to scrub the brown stain off. Finally
The white of the tiles peeped through the ghosts of his words.

After cleaning, everything he did not want us to clear out went
Back to their places, including the stash of air pumps and
Arowana feed. Strange things to keep:
His fish are dead. The first thing we had done
Was to throw away the empty fish tank. It had
Left a clean rectangle against the wall, only an impression
Of the final moments of what used to be life.
White shadows on walls, the streets of Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Basking in the aftermath.
That was him holding onto some memory we will never understand.

Nobody understands, which is why he
Is lonely, lapsing in to silence, sinking into quicksand,
Hoarding trinkets and plastic containers,
Buoyant things, to stay afloat. To him there is sand everywhere.
On his sheets and in his sleep, in his mouth when he eats. He is
Trying to walk out of the lonely desert.
The empty pile of plastic containers will grow, and collect brown dust
Until he could finally cook for his Wife.
For that reason he needs three packets of salt and seven bottles of oil.
There is sand
Everywhere.

He throws nothing away. Wait for his Wife’s opinion.
So he waits, but really the clutter is to fill the spaces with
Futile hopes for a new magic stone to work.
Or his oldest, brownest properties, he stows them away
Surrounding himself with memories of his Wife.
An electrical fan for when she sleeps on the only bed, a food blender
For what she could no longer chew. He throws nothing away.
Except for the browned boxes of expired pills awaiting his Wife
Who was “about to be discharged” since five months ago. That, he tells us
To throw away.
He knows his Wife would not be needing them.

When we leave, he will still burn his incense as a fruitless ritual
And silence would still cling to his house
Everywhere, in the pots he never used, on the dust
Collecting on his laundry line, in between the
Clear rolls of tape he has never opened
(From the previous batch of volunteers)
He curls in bed, stares at smoke, waits
For someone to free him from all the memories he could not
Bring himself to throw away. Someone pull him out of the quicksand. Someone, anyone, please, open his windows.
It is time to breathe.