This space carries memories, unspooling
my sister’s laughter
bad dad jokes
my mother’s eyes, cradling us
you can see it if you lean in close enough
Between you and the past, a wall
of Sunday mornings and rushed dinners
the last few days before your biweekly pay
but there’s always a wall
the plastic hum of preservation
fading till it forgets itself
How much of your childhood
still fits inside your pocket?
when did the photos
become whispers you couldn’t quite understand?
So we distill, annotate, freeze time
and call the fragments whole
Mi Goreng,
wrapped up and shipped out
as if a nation could be boiled down to noodles and spice
as if my family’s history
our joys, our wounds
could be packaged just as neatly
Yet, here I am
Indo Me
—
See the exhibition room sheet here.