From Our Breakfast Table

From Our Breakfast Table a column that Anya Rompas was (supposed to share) with her husband while the
both of them are enjoying having their hearty and long breakfast. Discussing all and every topic imaginable,
from the personal to the mundane, from the political to the magical, from the upsetting to the delightful.
It is on their breakfast table, together. With scrambled eggs, orange juice and coffee, she dissects
our fears and concerns, plans and fantasies... until it's time for lunch!

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

A Good Time

A Good Time

There are days when it feels like my mind is taking a walk outside, leaving me behind at home. She would wear a yellow summer dress and a pair of old, beat-up white Converse shoes. She would only carry with her a purple wallet. With its fake leather peeling so terribly, it scatters its shredded skin as she walks past. Nothing else is in her hands. No umbrella. No sunglasses. No make up pouch. You know, all the things that you use to compensate for your insecurities. And as she leaves, I slowly realize how privileged it is to even have insecurities. 

I stare at her back through the window as she leaves from the confines of my house. She leaves almost without a sound. And just like that, she is gone.

The house is quiet without her. It feels almost peaceful. Like those few precious seconds just before you doze off whilst listening to your favourite playlist. Like you’re reading a book about poets, reciting and reliving their lives in your head. Like you’re watching the evening news drone on and on and on and you focus on the empty space between you and the TV.

But then, the unease sets in. You start to feel like you’re fading away. It begins by forgetting the names of your favourite places in the city. Faces of people you’ve met and had drinks with. Responsibilities like your credit card bills, emails to your old friends, even commenting on Facebook on pointless threads to keep in some form of contact with another human being.

I had forgotten that she said she might not come back. So she did not take too many things from me. Out of kindness, I think.

At dusk I sit on my bed. I want to pray but I cannot find the words. I get down on my knees. I roll my body back and forth. I bury my head under my blanket. But they will not come.

And I start remembering
... that time-worn sadness. 

I am remembering
... those creatures from long ago.

I see the people that pass by behind the taxi’s windows. The people that sits on their own at a bus stop past midnight. The people who are still selling yesterday's paper. The people who lie on makeshift cardboard beds on the pavement as the rain begins to fall. And others like them who were swept under the city's asphalt and buildings - so we could see the lights. 

But it is dark. 

Still,
be still,
my head. 

The next thing I know it is morning. Soon after I opened the window, I find my mind is sitting on one of the chairs in my backyard. She seems to have been crying all night long, but it may have just been the rain. Her dress is torn in different places and dirt is all over her body, including her hair and face. She looked at me but stayed in her place, motionless.  

I unlock the back door. I walk back to my bedroom without saying anything to her. I’ve not given myself the comfort of a shower since yesterday. Now is a good time to do that.

A Year in Review

A Year in Review

Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time