Malacca
On the road to Malacca we were stuck at the Causeway.
On the road to Malacca customs and immigration inspected the belly of our car with tiny mirrors on telescopic handles and let us through with poker faces and perfunctory waves.
On the road to Malacca the sign read 220 km to Malacca and we were happy.
On the road to Malacca unending ranks and files of rubber trees stood by fashioning the morning light into shanks and shivs.
On the road to Malacca we talked about years ago when we were there with the kids and recalled the blood crimson facade of the old Colonial Town Hall, the vaultless ruins of St Paul’s and the crumbling battlements of Fortress A Famosa.
On the road to Malacca the toilets at the rest stop were carpeted with the carcasses of flying ants.
On the road to Malacca we talked about my father and if we should send him to a home but not about where we were going to get the money.
On the road to Malacca the highway rose and fell in time to the laps and lifts of the valleys and hills.
On the road to Malacca we spoke about the company trips and calls going straight to voice-mail and how she’s ancient history and why do we keep living in the past.
On the road to Malacca the sky stretched bare and blue.
On the road to Malacca we saw that we had grown apart these thirty-odd years and that it’s sad that you could live with someone that long and never really know them.
On the road to Malacca the views took our breaths away.
On the road to Malacca we understood that every journey must eventually come to an end.
~
*note to "Malacca"
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