Birthdays from Barzakh

I

I zoom into the past, right back to his seventh birthday, buying that lavish birthday cake which turned out to be for a wedding, less so for someone's birthday. I remember the way his face glowed, and what a fool I was to ignore it when it happened.

Back inside my grave, different shades of white have already surrounded me three years after arriving here, with lamps casting pockets of light, warm to feel and touch. I remembered being told that as we grow older, our birthdays become unremarkable. No grand celebrations, just a handful of familiar faces, the same colleagues who can heal you or break you, the partner you’ve chosen to share your days with.

But here time streams through each other, and I watch as my son refuses to believe that growing older means losing the magic.

Because even in the ordinary, he can still find a vast garden to explore. Rollercoasters of feeling, moments so full they press against the edges of all those expectations, like a balloon slipping free from the pavement, floating effortlessly into the pale blue sky. I've made mistakes. Choices that pulled him too far from me, from where I thought he should be. But in the end, he is here, turning 34. And even though he feels everything, his centre remains still and intact. Those emotions never turn into knives anymore.

II

Today started with a sleep-in, a choice he made to give himself another hour of rest. Even the smallest uprisings must start somewhere. When 5:30 a.m. finally rang through the silence, he stirred, sat still for a moment, and thought, nah not yet. Because today, he would do something different, even in the smallest way. A shift so subtle only he would feel it. The quiet act of simply waking on his own terms, of holding time in his hands and making it his own, even for just a moment.

I watched as he curled into his small pillow, the neighbourhood birds from Bukit Panjang beginning their morning call, rallying the hardworking heartland West into motion. But his eyes stayed shut, drifting somewhere softer, some funny world of his own. Just for a moment, peace was made painted with a different shade of purple.

I never grow tired of watching him feel safe. There is always a weight to it, a fullness in the heart, the kind that makes you believe. That perhaps all those mistakes, all those imperfect choices, somehow led here. That my faith in his uniqueness carved a path for someone who could give so much love, so much joy, to so many people.

What a shame for those who could not see beyond themselves, who mistook reflection for depth and overlooked the light right in front of them. They had their chance, there will be no one else like him.

III

Across from Block 26 near Teck Whye, I watched him step into the bus, joining twenty-three other commuters, lost in a new HAIM record. His body gave way to the music. Every few steps he offered the world a quick shuffle, a swerve of his feet and arms, his own Billy Elliot pushing to the surface. Of course, they all watched. But he didn’t care.

I slip back in time, just to compare. And I see him dancing, carefree, to the theme song of Sailor Moon, right before the call from immigration came. The moment that changed everything. And yet, look at him now. Dancing still, slipping playfulness between the cracks of adulthood, between work and strangers and all the scars he wears.

Where does he gather all this strength? After all the fatigue and destined heartbreak, those intergenerational pain he inherited, and the pain the world insisted he bear, here he is. Moving, with a joy bigger than the size of the bus itself, nourishing himself with his own steps.

No, I don't think he received this from my own parenting, this was his own armour he forged.

IV

And later tonight he will have dinner with someone he cares about, someone he's made dinners for, living a life together with no keeping score, no tally of debts. I'm so glad I gave him permission all those years ago, us two sitting in front of the TV looking at the daily Indonesian soap at *Tasikmalaya*, an image of a wedding taking place, of two people supposedly in love.

And I remember looking at him, his eyes burdened with a cloak so thick and heavy it covered his entire capacity to think it was possible. But I knew, I have known for a while, of his gentleness and his demeanor, of his safety and his capacity to love. And when I told him that he didn't have to get married, I could see that all wash away, like a stream of water swallowing the residue of all those expectations, revealing a thick sheet of glass that refracted every part of him, turning into a rainbow that gets brighter with time, with every step and movement he makes.

I'm so proud of him. For all the colours he creates with the people he cares for, for looking after my husband all these years. I wish I was there with him, to feel the way he paints his life and his world in such vibrant strokes, such colourful shades. I would have been so happy.

V

In the beginning when it was all just darkness, I remember asking myself. What was it all for?

Perhaps being alive was all about the light we gave to people, to our faith, and to ourselves. How it accumulates, spreads, and lingers. And when we arrive here waiting, and the lights gather too. Hovering, circling, keeping us warm as we wait for Judgment Day.

All these lights, one by one, they will stay warm because of my son, and for my son. A life measured in light, and the quiet, golden flames that make us who we are.

Happy birthday, my lovely, lovely son. Keep taking pictures to sharpen your eye. Save those pieces of music to help you remember the light you bring as you grow older. May your joy continue to grow, may your armour never falter, may you always find colours to paint the world with.

And it’s okay, you are allowed to write. To celebrate and remind yourself. To remember and document. To reach back and reply, even with those who have hurt you the most.