Farm Upon A HIll

Farm Upon A Hill

And there it was: a farm upon a hill. Its white wood, reminiscent of a past illusion, shone across the hill. I captured the light, but more so it captured me; it gave me hope that there was still something here to preserve--that there was still something here to learn. Far above, the sun began to retreat, and the darkness was fast approaching. But in its last dash for freedom, the sun found my mother. From afar, she shone true, but the evening was only so beautiful.

As the fields turned brown, flocks of milky white goats chased the sun; desperately searching for the green, they swooped through the burning air and tripped on each other. As it went out of touch, their picturesque thoughts of the green slowly succumbed to imagination--a luxury once tangible. The brown grass greeted their hooves, but they fell for its smooth touch and slumped on the prickly ground. The air was filled with giggles, only to be silenced by a rotting cacophony.

Approaching the peak of the slippery hill, I spotted a familiar figure--a mirage at first but soon her silhouette came together. Her skin reflected that of a farmer--dry but bright. A longing cascade drooled out of her eyes as she received my body. The stiffness of her arms braced my back, pricking my joints. Her fingers dug into past callouses, as she loosened her grip and welcomed me back to her farm.

Hardly anything had changed. The vivid paintings remained on her walls, as their borders turned a crisp brown. My mother’s rattan furniture, which she bought from a local Chinese shop that claimed it was completely genuine, was still neatly placed, with its most intricate details left intact; as one rattan strand plummeted, the other strand reached out into the air only to plummet to the very ground again. Yet, my feet saw it first--chipped pieces of genuine rattan strewn across the floor.

A smoky odor fogged the furniture, as my mother appeared from the dimly lit kitchen with my favorite Malay meal, dendeng. Its charred filaments mirrored the dark, and all that was left of it was a stale black slate. As I reached into the dark, my teeth were met with a scorching sensation; little fibers wrapped around my tongue, tightening every time it reached for the meat. My gums surrendered to the fog, only to be concealed by a layer of tar--bland but tasteless.

My mother stared at me with utter confusion, as beauty lost its everything. And just like a farm upon a hill, I sat and accepted all and all that has changed.