I wake up. It’s already tomorrow
in Hong Kong. I open the bathroom door- my mother
was in labor, giving birth to me in the hospital
that had been listed as national heritage 5 years ago.
I run to the street to catch a streetcar, west-bound
to High Park. It is 8:30am. Toronto downtown.
The door closed- my father was giving me a lecture
on punctuality. I returned to him postmodernist
theory, to which I was introduced in the first
year of university. We wrestled until midnight.
By the time I get off the streetcar, I am still able to
arrive to the office 9 minutes early. I pour myself a cup of coffee.
I open the fridge to look for cream- an old boyfriend handed me
a cappuccino, by the fireplace in a pub, a band
was singing in Viking tones. I casted off the last row
of my first toque. As he admired the small holes in the wool,
I put on the toque, I then arrived in the midsummer
in front of the archway, a small Buddhist temple
on a green mountain, smoking a mini cigarillo
with an ex lover, who had not decided to become
a monk yet, no, not until next year. We sat on the staircase,
staring at the rain. Countless cars drove past us
It’s already midnight, in the Australian Central Time.
My coffee is cold, and all my colleagues had gone home.
I wait for the streetcar. East- bound to Yonge. It takes forever
to arrive, always. It takes me forever to fall asleep
again, and when I open my eyes again, I will be
giving birth to my own child.
By Gracelynn Lau (2017)