Painted Birds on Quiet Hills

by Ryan Wong

I. LITTLE SPARROW, WHERE HAVE YOUR WINGS TAKEN YOU?

This small body was not built to look back every other step: to dwell so wholly in the past the present is but a mirror under murky water. Yet on hot afternoons I find myself tracing the veins below my knuckles, lulled into a haze by dreams of salt water, amber skies, and fish fried in bubbling oil. Dreams, or perhaps memories from a time long past. Like I said, this body was not built to look back. 

I can tell you where these wings have carried me, but I cannot tell you how I got here. A stray gust of wind through a sheer curtain, perhaps. How could I? When you’ve been underwater for so long, staring unblinking at the sky as if it were the lid of a coffin, everything—every feeling, sensation, and thought—is washed away as soon as it comes. Life passes by in an indifferent blur with sporadic flickers of almost until one day, you look down to see your wings marked by handprints of every shape, size, and hue. Strange, isn’t it?

Still, I try to remember. To mold the residue together into something that doesn’t quite catch the light right. When midnight spills her pool of ink, I fall asleep to the ghosts of puzzle pieces linking their uneven hands together and awake the next day to a sour taste in my mouth. Rinse and repeat. 

When the time comes, I will die with a furrowed brow and a mind full of blurry imitations, but these marks, at least, will have stayed with me.

II. SMALL WITH A BREATH LARGER THAN LIFE

You are a book collecting dust in the middle of a library with seemingly no end to its collection. Or rather, you are a painting: demure to some, incomprehensible to others, twirling through the halls of an empty museum as if you were a roaring midsummer bonfire. When all in the vast world is silent, and you are left with only the thump of your heart and the ringing in your ears, do you let yourself fade quietly into nothingness, or catch the rhythm and dance? 

On this breathing body of an island, you and I are like flecks of polish on the tip of a colorful nail. Not often are we privy to the quiet that makes a person want to scream with bliss from the edge of a great cliff. The world as we know it blooms with so much noise that it often cancels itself out, and what remains is not utter silence, but a replica born from the insecurity that comes with realized monotony—a creaking bridge between familiarity and the inherent craving for novelty. But every once in a while, the bridge snaps in two, and we plunge like stones into the valley that lies between both states. The quiet swallows us whole and we are, if only for a moment, stripped bare of every weight and shackle. 

And so we soar, flitting carelessly through soft clouds and lush canopies. If only for a moment, you and I are lighter than air, and there is nothing but the joy from within the pockets of our dearest memories. 

III. SOLACE IS ITS OWN SHADE OF BLUE

The windchimes above the dining table bump lazily into one another, nudged by a gentle afternoon breeze. Rain patters against the window like the beating of a hundred hummingbird hearts. It’s the middle of October, monsoon season, and the gloom fills you with a warmth that blossoms like a flower in spring. The faint scent of newspaper lingers beside your grandmother’s bed. She’s in the kitchen, the floor is wet, and the house is filled with smoke and a scent you can’t recall but would recognize in an instant. Sunlight filters through the leaves of the rambutan tree in the backyard, casting shadows like melting diamonds across the grass tickling your feet. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. Chlorine stings your eyes. The sky is a tangerine, and you hunger for something you cannot name. 

Standing atop the shoulder of this great hill, a mere pinprick against the horizon, a feeling of shame snakes across my skin to settle in the palms of my hands. With it comes a calm resignation; like the parting of old lovers who, long ago, once believed they were eternal. It is here, on the roof of the house I have called home all this while, where it truly sinks in: that there are rooms in this home of a beauty I could never fully comprehend.

But even so, I feel that I am more than fortunate to have even stepped through the front door. Painted on every wall and tile is a story that from up close is unreadable, but from a far enough distance is a magnificent tapestry: personal, communal and national histories, interwoven with the finest of threads. It is only in these rare moments of disconnect where their colors are richest, and from the shame and resignation comes tranquil peace, rising like a pearly sun. 

Within every monsoon, durian, bowl of cendol, cup of teh tarik and tucked into every wantan, kuih and banana leaf, a piece of that story—however savory, sweet, or bitter—is told. You need only listen.