I leave them to your memory. Your birthday's coming soon. In pace requiscat.
As much as I love roses, I've always been more of a wildflower than a hot-house species. I could wear the dresses, the jewellery, the shoes, put on the makeup and carry the bag, do the banka-wanka thing. I think I've done enough of a convincing mimicry for the last 7.5 years that recent friends always do a double-take when they learn of the other things I get up to.
But a part of me remains the convent girl running barefoot on the beach, calling out jibes to the neighbouring mission school boys, giggling over the graffiti on the toilet walls, throwing tissue paper to stick on the ceilings and making Chinese tutors cry. The same part which gives rise to these itinerant fits of wanderlust and dance forms not within the realms of "appropriate".
The choice came, something I'd turned down two years ago.
"We have an opening and you're the first we thought of"
"It'll be a local contract"
"You realise we'd have no guaranteed place for you for a return?"
Am I afraid, yes, there are things and people I find hard to leave behind. The mind is uneasy - why am I giving up good enough for an unknown chance; given HK will be in many ways, tougher than here, and I don't know if there's room for wildflowers or honesty there. I wish you were here so we could talk and I'd feel less afraid.
What made the choice in the end was simply what Aaron had said some time ago, "above all, never be afraid of movement."
White roses, red roses. Destiny, chance. Perhaps neither. Just seeking a field and a sunbeam to call home.
