The Colours We Give | On hold

| 10 |

" How can I live in the moment

When my thoughts never feel like my own and

Don't know how to admit that I'm broke "

- I can't breathe, Bea Miller

☀

tassel

MOM AND I WAKE UP at a sudden crashing sound ringing through the apartment. My body, drowsy with sleep, abruptly gets up and sits on the bed. Mom on the other hand dashes to the living room. 

"Vincent!" she shouts. She sounds afraid. I rub my eyes and run over to her.

When I see the sight in front, I'm fully awake at once. The base of the centre table lies lopsidedly on the floor. Half of its glass top lies in million shatters while the other half moons on the ground. Dad stands beside the mess, looking at with disbelief.

"How did this happen?" Mom asks. Her tone, although quiet, is very demanding. 

Dad stares at the entire scene and then opens his mouth to speak. "I don't know, I slept on the sofa last night -"

"Why did you sleep on the sofa?" Mom asks with detectable rising anger.

"I just fell asleep here." he answers, his voice squeaky. "I woke up and was about to go to the bathroom, but...but then my knee accidentally hit the table and it fell."

"What in the hell, Vincent!" Mom says, walking towards the shards. Dad holds her back before she cuts herself on them.

I understand why she's so upset; the table was a gift from her parents. It was a souvenir they got from Cambodia; a small table with its base made of a tree root and the top of sepia glass. They gave it to her because she loves decorating our house with antiques. Mom told me that it was also the first thing her parents gifted her after her wedding.

"I'm sorry, Myra," Dad apologizes. 

She glares at him. "It's okay, it's okay," she says, restlessly. "You're okay, right?"

She pushes me back slightly. "Make sure to not hurt yourself there." 

I nod and sit on one of the dining table chairs.

Dad nods. "I'm absolutely fine. I'm so sorry, Myra. I really had no intention to do this. I'm very sorry."

Mom continues to fret. Her hands are all over the place. "It's okay, it's okay. Just get the dust pan," she orders. Dad runs over to get it along with the sweeper.

While I sit there wordlessly, Mom and Dad clean the entire thing. I'm relieved they're co-operating with each other instead of arguing. After all the pieces have been gathered, they throw it off into the bin. They pick the slab of glass still intact and take it out to the balcony.After they come back, Dad picks the base of the table and turns it over, making it upright.

Both of them sigh. Mom looks at me. "Get ready for school. I'll go make breakfast."

Dad apologizes to her again, and she keeps throwing out not okay okays. He follows her into the kitchen. I decide to head to my room and get some clothes out for school.