2023 Christmas story: Awakening

It looked like a giant’s mossy hand. 

Christine ran her fingers through its needle-like foliage. (“The Chinese Juniper is a great alternative for Christmas trees in tropical Singapore,” observed the National Parks Board website.) Like a pine, the plant grew in a cone shape, though Grandpa’s years of bending and sculpting had given it a more twisted, striking form. 

Looking up the care instructions, she noted full sun, moderate water. She placed the bonsai by the window, on her desk, just next to a photograph of Grandpa and her at Changi Airport. She had just returned from her studies in the United States then. Grandpa stood beside her, beaming triumphantly, with his signature wide smile. 

On the bus ride home from the crematorium a week ago, after Grandpa was fed into the maw of gleaming flame, Ma asked Christine if she wanted something of his to remember him by.

Christine found herself saying, I wouldn’t mind the plant that looks like a Christmas tree. 

She caressed the needles between her fingers. They felt both firm and oddly tender. She gave a slight smile as she recalled how Grandpa used to speak to his plants, especially this one, Listen to me – behave! 

Then, she felt a sharp sting. It wasn’t quite clear what had cut her: the needles, or remnants of metal wire that Grandpa had used to shape the plant.   

Blood dripped on the desk and formed a dark red pool, just by the photograph. Grandpa’s face was reflected in it.  

*

The next evening, Christine fled home, humiliated. Her proposal to revamp the syllabus had been ridiculed by her head of department. 

Ms Toh, I can’t imagine a better way to turn our students off literature.

Slamming the bedroom door behind her, she settled into her chair, sunk her face into her hands and let out a deeply entombed sigh.

What an a*****e. 

After raiding her stash of emergency gin, Christine’s eyes landed on the bonsai. It seemed to have grown, even in the space of a day, stretching towards the light of the window. 

It seemed strangely attentive. She sat down and started to confide in it. 

About how Samson, her boss, was an arrogant pig who condescended to her and others all the time. About how happy she was when her students responded positively, even enthusiastically, to her encouragement to write creative pieces of their own. About how about making meaningful change in the school seemed impossible.

Her tears, accelerating to a stream, dripped and watered the plant. 

It seemed to understand. Christine leaned in and caressed its needles again with her fingers. 

Feeling a surge of resolution, she took out her laptop and started to draft a letter of resignation to her principal. 

Unfortunately, I find myself crying when I think about work these days, and I feel that this cannot continue. 

She clicked “send” and laughed, feeling a lightness grow within her. 

*

Over the weekend, Christine tended to the bonsai. 

She snipped off wayward foliage, using wires to give it the desired form, as Grandpa had once done.  

The bonsai absorbed everything patiently. She told it what jobs she was thinking of applying for. She spoke about Grandpa, about how she used to go on bus rides with him across the island, eventually looping back to their origin. She read it a poem she had written about his last days, struggling with dementia. 

Your plants scream, silently 

as you water them 

for the fourth time.

They are not the only ones drowning.

The planned itinerary of weekend barhopping with Genevieve, her girlfriend, suddenly seemed less interesting. She missed Gen’s texts.

Babe where on earth are you  

can you please answer  

Not feeling sleepy, Christine sat by the bonsai into the wee hours of the night.

When she did finally fall asleep, her head resting on the desk, she dreamt about walking through a park with Grandpa. 

In the distance, mynahs digging up the ground for grubs. Among them, there is one whose plumage is not quite black, but a dark green.

She wants to point this out to Grandpa, but he has vanished. 

*

Ma couldn’t remember the last time Christine came out of her room.

Concerned, she gave the bedroom door a tentative knock. 

Christine, have you had dinner? 

Ma was surprised to hear an energetic, almost booming voice. 

Come in! 

As she entered, Christine stood up to greet her. Ma noticed at once the bonsai – which now looked like a monstrous, verdant spider – taking up a third of the desk. Sniffing, she also noted a woody, earthy scent suffusing the room. 

Ma needn’t have worried. Her daughter seemed to be thriving. She even appeared to have grown taller. 

Don’t worry Ma, I’m not hungry, Christine replied, a green glint in her eyes.