Cheng Yun & Caspian


You came over to my old place to help me pack last week. I could only grimace as you pulled each of the trinkets you bought for me out of my cupboard: pristine, unread self-help books from Popular and Kinokuniya, the cherry red rattan bags from our trip to Bali, the ‘I Love NY’ shirts we bought from some shoddy booth at 45th and Lexington.

You’d pause with each one you take out. Your head would tilt, as if to gently stir the contents of your memory. I was trying to see how you’d recite each memory, would it be with joy, or sadness? But, to be honest, I wasn’t sure which one I’d rather see.

‘Aw! Your colleagues wrote you letters!’

‘Well, only two of them. And to think that we spent so much time at the office doing overtime.’

You grunted. ‘Well, at least someone wrote you letters right?’

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