SINGAPORE - Four Singapore writers reflect - in fiction or essay form - on moving from a fraught 2021 into the unknown of 2022.
The Moth
By Meira Chand
This year I will listen to music again, she thought. Pachelbel. Bach. Enya. This year. For months that inner voice had echoed this promise within her. Now the new year was here, and still the courage to take this step forward defeated her. It was already nearly three years since Krishna had passed, and through that time of grieving the beauty of music was too painful to hear. As Deena pulled up the window blinds, the morning sun streamed into her face.
Even at the end, the world was still beautiful
By Daryl Qilin Yam
I'm thinking about how it all began, as usual. It's been snowing in Singapore for two and a half years, and nobody knows why, or how, or why now.
People wanted to blame global warming. All that made me realise was that the universe, as usual, had a unique sense of humour.
Pa said it was magic. Kor smirked and said, "Maybe it's Yishun. I bet it started from there." Jie sighed and wondered if it was aliens.
Ma quoted the Prime Minister: "It's not the end of the world. It's just a state of emergency."
I kept quiet; I had no theories. Even at the end, I thought, the world was still beautiful.
The Decluttering Diaries
By Balli Kaur Jaswal
In 2019, I made my first attempt at decluttering.
Or I thought about it. I made a mental list of things that needed to go, starting with a box of plastic laminated coasters that came free with a supermarket purchase. For some reason, I didn't throw anything out, but I kept adding to my list. Every couple of days, I remembered with a jolt of guilt that I was supposed to be clearing my shelves and bagging old clothes.
Someday, Somehow
By Clarissa Goenawan
The woman next door was probably the only one who was happy about the pandemic. She finally had a convenient excuse. "My husband is working overseas. He can't return to Singapore because of the border closures." But everyone knew he'd left her for a younger woman. He'd not been home in years, but she continued to hang his clothes in the corridor from time to time to give the impression that he still lived there.
"That's sad," you said.
