On Letting the Child Go but Keeping the Handle

My childhood is like a cup of coffee. I scrunch up my nose when its sour bitterness unfurls on my tongue, and I force myself to let it slip down my throat without sweetener or milk. I do so to relish its undertones – sometimes nutty, sometimes earthy – and to let its warmth sear away the night’s residue, enveloping me like my mother’s embrace

It’s routine by now. A slow, graceless shuffle to the kitchen while my eyes are still blurry with remnants of slumber. I pull out my special mug: the one with Care Bears, beaming and colourful as if the five little creatures with their permanent smiles could cure my morning lethargy. It’s chipped and stained and the handle is about to come right off, but there’s something about the ceramic grit and the way the porcelain moulds into my fingers that clings to my heart.

The coffee machine whirrs and hums, and I listen as if it’s an old friend telling me a lifetime of stories. The sound of my family stirring melts away. My plan for the day melts away. All of it melts away and it’s just me and the kitchen and my cup of coffee, steam unfurling like a question mark.

A little girl used to stand in this same place all those years ago, clinging onto her mother’s sweater while the knife-edge-cold tiles bit into the soles of her bare feet—awake too early, still chased by a nightmare of spiders and crayon-drawn monsters. Every time, she yearned for nothing more than a hug and a warm cup of milk, frothing and filling to the brim of the same Care Bears mug I clutch every morning like it’s my lifeline.

I think of her pigtails and her pink dungarees—I wonder if I would recognise her on the street, or if she would recognise me, this stranger who wears her face like a borrowed coat.

One second, something upsets her and she cries fat tears, cheeks becoming mottled and red-spotted while her pudgy hands clench into fists. Yet when she sees her neighbour’s cat she beams and giggles. What a clear, ringing sound! The life ahead of her is like a paper blessing, fruitful and folded, tucked into the very palm of her hand.

She likes My Little Pony and the colour purple. She likes wearing her hair down and flowing, not in the two snaking braids her mother ties for her (they tug and pull at her scalp and it feels like her skin will peel right off). And it can’t be forgotten: her biggest aspiration in life is to become a princess.

If I could reach her, I’d give her a big, big hug. I want to stroke her hair and tell her it’s okay if she’s always last during PE and that there’s no shame in not being able to read those Chinese books her grandmother gives her by the pile. I want to shout at her with every cell in my body just to get my message across: Run! Dance! Enjoy everything you can enjoy!

And I want to apologise to her–for the way I flinch when I see myself in the morning, or the way I feel disgusted and perfectly inadequate when I look at myself in the mirror. She’d be disappointed if she found out I cut off her beautiful locks, bleached and dyed them so many times that the ends are split and fried. Maybe if I take her little hand in mine and we run off into the forest, I could make her happy and we could live in a sanctuary of puppies, unicorns and her favourite Lucky Charms cereal. I would bake her matcha brownies and chocolate cookies, letting the sweetness melt on our tongues like stolen sacraments.

Alas, I do not know her, and she doesn’t know me. The past is like that kitchen I cannot re-enter. We will never talk face to face, yet I send her all my blessings and prayers, my thoughts and apologies. I hold onto her spirit the same way I hold onto a childhood promise–one that I let go into the wind before I knew to mourn it.