Poem: "The Compass and the Scythe"

Part I

My friend in Singapore brought her mother to the flat Sunday.

She rolled her inside, laid her on the bed, then folded the wheelchair in the corner.

When laying an immobile person on a bed, you must be careful. Place a pillow between her legs and behind her head, and give her hands something soft to clutch.

The whole day, she will lay there and do nothing.

If you live long enough to visit Death's doorstep, you do not need to eat or even drink more than once a day, and what you eat will be soft. Perhaps porridge, or pudding on a special occasion. Since you cannot cook or even stand, your choices are not your own.

Everyone ends up disabled in the end.

Part II

I don’t think about my hearing loss much. My ears I've had all my life, like my left arm and my right foot, but less functional. If you wonder what it's like to be deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound, don't overthink it: we all experience disability if we live long enough.

Others of all ages have looked down on me after they've seen my hearing aids. It felt better to wear one instead of two, pretending I could hide. Some days, I wear neither, especially when traveling outside Europe and America.

If I'm lucky to ascend into ripe old age, my compass, unlike yours, won't change. It'll remain broken, and I won't feel any different. My entire life will have prepared me for climbing my final cliff. You, on the other hand, will experience a great loss, far greater than the one you think I have.

Part III

She hasn't changed position all day, and now it is night. Her forefinger is on her lip, and only her eyes move when she senses a change. Twenty-two and a half years ago, I met her in a different flat. She was eating lunch, and she didn’t like me, a foreigner. We did not meet again for many years. 

My friend asks her mother, “Do you want to eat?” They discuss the matter in Bahasa Melayu, the language of Singapore's national anthem. She will eat later.

“Nanti?”

“Yes, nanti.”

I see a look of surprise on Ibu's face. I realize it has been a long time. I follow up with, “Makan nanti,” then “Dia makan nanti?” A smile forms on her face, and I realize she may be blind, but she hears just fine. It took two decades, but I finally changed her mind about me.

© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (December 24, 2023)

For Xie Bi'an (謝必安) and مَلَائِكَة.