Nicholas Quek, Singapore
I could never get the right amount of fertiliser. Or
water, for the matter. Deciding between too loose and
too tight while alternating brands and mixtures
became too much to bear. If only I could ask Nüwa
how she moulded her dolls so effortlessly,
sustaining their elusive breaths. All I could do was
bury things and wait. After visiting the arboretum, I
ran my boots clean with bare fingers, tracing
wetness too faint to remain. When the seeds
we planted failed to stir, you brought them home.
They blossomed soon after, each pot an ecosystem
nurtured by your sunshine. Some days remain
muddied still - but in your eyes, I see right through
every breath lost when you soften in my arms. These
fingers have learnt to excavate your wetness from
red earth, so that bare skin may bloom once more.
Perhaps there is no perfect amount of care: only the
patience to sift through silt, and the grit to try again.
Nicholas Quek (he/him) is a moment between breaths, subsisting on borrowed time. He is a physician functioning at variable capacity, and a member of the literary collective zerosleep. During his downtime, he makes playlists, and maintains a strange love for the anima methodi. Every morning, he relearns how to comfort always.
