20/11/2025
The sound of rain outside the window was fine and dense, like the murmuring of distant mountains. I sat on the edge of Auntie K's empty bed, my fingers brushing over the faded, freshly washed sheets that still carried the faint scent of soap. Eighty-seven years of life had finally been distilled into a few old belongings in this corner of the nursing home and a room full of silent memories.
Her son often spoke of the days when his mother would take the bus to teach. In those years, when the sky was just beginning to lighten, she would already be ready, carrying that worn cloth bag, waiting in the morning mist for the rickety bus. I imagined her holding onto the door as she stepped on, finding a seat by the window, spreading her lesson preparation notes on her knees, letting the dawn gild her profile in gold.
That fall two years ago changed everything. After surgery for a fractured left hip bone, fear wrapped around her like a vine. She refused to set foot on the ground again, curling up in bed all day as if the floor were an abyss. It took us a full year to get her to let us support her as she walked from the bed to the door—a mere five steps that left her drenched in sweat, her thin, frail hand gripping my arm tightly, her knuckles turning white.
It’s interesting to note that Auntie K had Parkinson’s disease, her hands constantly trembling involuntarily. Yet, when it came to meals, she stubbornly insisted on feeding herself. At every meal, she would carefully lift the small bowl specially prepared for her with those ever-trembling hands. The soup in the bowl rippled with her movements, as if her entire world was concentrated in that trembling little bowl. Just like that, quivering unsteadily, she would bring the bowl to her lips, and again, quivering unsteadily, she would enjoy the simple meal we had prepared for her—usually two dishes and a soup. We would gather around, watching with a mix of amusement and nervous apprehension, afraid that at any moment the bowl might tip over. Yet, she always managed to maintain her balance miraculously, finding her own rhythm within the constant tremor, eating bite after bite, steadily and calmly. The focused look on her face somewhat resembled her grading papers under the lamplight in her younger days.
But her memory stubbornly remained fixed in those brightest years. The most heart-wrenching moments were those at dusk. She would often quietly move to the edge of the bed, let her feet dangle, and stare blankly at the door. Her graying hair was slightly disheveled, but her eyes were as clear and bright as a student waiting for her first class.
“Miss,” she would ask me in a hushed voice when she saw me come in, “could you go check why the bus hasn’t come yet? The students are all waiting.”
Just as I was about to answer, the sound of a nurse half-walking, half-running echoed from the hallway—probably a call bell ringing in another room.
Auntie L’s back straightened instantly.
Her brow furrowed slightly, her eyes following the sound of the unseen hurried footsteps outside the door, her lips parting as she uttered a fluent stream of Bahasa:
“Jangan lari, nanti jatuh.” (Don’t run, you might fall.)
Her voice was gentle but carried an undeniable authority, the kind honed over decades of standing at a lectern. She paused, lightly tapping a finger on her knee as if there were a blackboard right in front of her:
“Mari duduk diam-diam. Tengok papan.” (Come, sit down quietly. Look at the blackboard.)
In that moment, time flowed backward.
I could almost see her standing in a bright classroom, chalk dust dancing in the sunlight, dozens of young eyes fixed on her. And she, calm and unhurried, used such simple words to impose order on restless youth.
After saying this, she quieted down, neatly folding her hands on her knees, her gaze returning to the door as she resumed her waiting. Only this time, there was a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of her lips, as if she had just handled a minor classroom interruption and returned to the familiar routine of waiting for the bus.
Now, that bus has finally arrived.
I like to imagine she straightened her clothes and stepped briskly through the doors. This time, there was no fear of falling, no cloud of forgetfulness. The bus carried her away, through a tunnel of time, stopping at a platform filled with the sound of reading and learning.
And in some classroom beyond our sight, she is picking up a piece of chalk, saying softly, "Today, we will learn..."
Outside the window, the rain gradually ceased. A ray of evening light broke through the clouds, falling exactly on her empty bed.
There was once sat a teacher waiting for a bus, and now, she has finally arrived on time.
#希望之家
