This cannot be an apology

With the row of girls spectating along the corridor, it

Looked like something had happened while we were cleaning up.

Perhaps a spaceship landed in their field, or some guy could be listening

To the echoes of the confession he had yelled. Something

Unlikely. I peered over their heads and could not find

What they were staring at: it was just their classmates

Playing in the field. Why was that worth crying over? To their eyes

Only, the world was ending (probably). I can feel their shuddering

As I hugged them and quietly pretended to watch with them.

They were staring at something else I had no right to see.

Their class pet burial. A magic rainbow unicorn. A nuclear mushroom.

Or something. I could not make up my mind when there are

Hundreds of things they could be crying about.

I found out that my arm span was three children long,

So I hugged them all. I had to stoop awkwardly.

We had collectively celebrated birthdays before this,

Prior to their tear streaked faces, they had a quiet and earnest look

As they made their wish and ate their pudding (cake substitutes). I confess:

I peeked at some of what they had penned down:

Those wishes were impossible to grant

(Not because I had peeked and they were no longer a secret).

For those wishes, we could only throw symbolism

And metaphor, the next best insincere thing besides

Cancelling our flight home, cancelling our future, or the life we have

Outside this village. Perhaps that

Is why we have a line of sniffling children. They realised no matter how

Hard

They will all the molecules in their tiny bodies, there are wishes

That cannot be granted. Even if it is their birthday. And

Yet, still, they choose to waste them on people like us. Every year

These unfulfilled wishes inflate with empty metaphors and the

Weight of sadness.

Their hearts break even more when we squeezed them close. You could

Feel it in their shuddering shoulders, exertion from keeping the fragments

Together. I rubbed their backs. A fresh flood of

Warm tears. And here they were trying so hard to build a

Dam. I stare harder at the fields. I

Think I know what was eluding me (or, what I have tried to avoid).

I tried not to think of tomorrow. I tried not to feel guilty for going back to

My home. These are primary five children

Who have seen many batches of us come and go.

Some of them learnt to stop wishing for the impossible. Instead they wish

For pens or books or snacks. Others never learnt to love us less.

These are primary five children, they have had many years of practice

For letting go. They have gotten used to crying in place of goodbyes.

They cry in a way that understood how selfish it was to want us to

Stay. (Stay awhile longer!) They would stop these thoughts if they could

But here are children souls that cannot bear letting go. They are watching

Their favourite movie ending (it’s ending…) and trying their best to enjoy it

(But it’s ending!). That is why there is no

Dramatic bawling, no sleeve tugging. Only

This line of spectators watching an imaginary tragedy,

Private grieving, powerless grieving. They are still only children.

Occasionally someone whimpers and lets out

A shuddering breath.

It breaks my heart.

I bury my face next to theirs and whisper soothing things instead.

Year

After year

We do this to them.