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Sitting with my knees pressed against the solid base of my bed, holding in the inevitable need to urinate that fills me upon every entry into my bedroom from the outside world. I am still but urgently fidgety. Everything is just out of reach, my fingers stretch and I clutch at my pale blue sheets.
Sitting with my back against the wall, padded with my bunched up duvet and my battered pillows, a computer on my lap. The power cord stuck to the side of the laptop leaves an indentation on my inner thigh, near the crook of my knee. When I lift the laptop, the square head of the cord breaks free of the little bed it has made in my skin.
Sitting on my hair covered carpet, pulling my dress, my t-shirt above my head, pulling my cardigan at the sleeves, taking my shoes off as I sit cross legged. Unhooking my bra, slipping the straps past my shoulders and letting it hang, stuck and molded to my shape. The quick action of draping my towel around me like a cape. I bend at the waist to tuck in the towel around me, maneuvering around the awkward short cord of my headphones which I never think to take off beforehand.
Lying down on my stomach in bed, the joy of only having to put on a t-shirt and a pair of underpants, the feel of my duvet cover sliding across the backs of my legs, and my bum, the awkward cushion of my pillow beneath my breasts, tucked in by my elbows. I am propped up.
I cross my legs behind me, making a tent of the fabric and thinking of how my grandmother and my aunt used to tell me that doing that would mean the death of my mother – a bad sign, a bad omen, a bad thing for a daughter to do. The superstitions embedded and stitched in a young girl’s limbs. I remember the teenage years of this pose, lying in front of the TV, too close and ruining my posture. Being a bad anak dara.
I remember thinking, “My mother’s already dead” as the sole of one foot massaged the other.
