I hate long haul flights. The cramped seats, the unimaginative airplane food in aluminum containers, and always, always that one complimentary crying baby or coughing old man.
It was a ten hour flight with turbulence so bad, it almost shook the Jesus out of me. I couldn’t tell upon arrival if the pilot was landing or crash landing onto the tarmac.
Jet lag and fatigue made me a cranky person: I was held up at immigration because I couldn’t justify why I am bringing 5kgs of bak kua (pork jerky) or that I am not trying to open a Maggi factory despite the many cartons of it.
“This is the staple Malaysian diet” did not quite cut it.
But walking out of the arrival hall and seeing Ah Bi after four long months; the way he still folds himself perfectly into my arms despite being a head taller, hearing him say Cece not through some synthetic medium;
and that night, tucking him into bed after so so long – I’ve been walking around for the past months with this brother-shaped void, trying in vain to fill it with other things and people.
All is right in my world again.