Fifty one.

The bus honks as loud as it could, splitting my ears into an elderly man on the right side of the road, who pulls up and down his wheeler in blue, filled with tomatoes in red. Blue enough to take me back to the house with grids where my mother grew up with her brothers and sisters. And red enough to remind me of a memory of my grandmother who always wanted to bite mouthful of the fruit in raw during lunch.
The bus now passes the army school my father had asked me of, if I’ve seen it. Past the old Airport road which had no buildings blocking the Airport view during the times when my father would bicycle for miles, along with his friends in the early 90’s. Times when there would be no traffic, few buses and many trees. This Airport he’s talking about is just behind my office, which I found the first day I came here when I had two military planes taking their wings off, not too high from my head. And now that I’ve been working here, I see an army of them flying just above the office buildings, through the glass walls of my top floor. And when I see one of those, I become a kid. Like how one morning I jumped at my feet out in the campus, pointing at a rather big plane flying over as I had my colleague walking next to me to tap at and the security guard to be laughed at. I became a kid all the way back, amid the white haired gentlemen in beige pants and ladies with hair cut short to shoulder, in formal trousers. All the way back to that little girl who’d run from the dark rooms of her house, out to the front yard, and stand under the sky, to chase after the minute figured aeroplane; folding her forehead at the sun.

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