Mima (part 1)

After she woke up at six in the morning,

She witnessed the sun rising.

She picked up the daily paper she never reads.

She propped open her gracefully wrinkled eyes with a heavily sweetened lipton tea.

She read her daily bible verse and watched the old shouting white-guy on TV.

She walked through a dimly lit hallway to the bathroom and witnessed another brown ring around the toilet bowl, around the bathtub, around the sink. This one has a lighter tint than yesterday. She then scrubbed them with sharp chemicals that stung so deeply in her nose, she thought she smelled blood.

As a seasoned weightlifter of the mundane routine, she prepared the medications for the residents exactly how she's been conducting the routine for years. Even the constant changes in the medications, or changes in the residency of the house, no longer excited her. They have long seeped into her clockwork mind.

She steadfastly followed the day's menu. She scanned the fridge and the pantries to find the ingredients. Some things needed to be thawed, some cut, some mixed, some fried, some baked, some microwaved, all served. Then inevitably some got thrown out into the trash.

She witnessed the sun sinking. She wished, as if she was blowing a birthday candle, for one day where she'll get to rest at night without the violent threat of monotony of labor.

She was sitting up on the bed with her back, neck and head resting on a pillow she propped up against the head board.

She realized the presence of her resilient, but deeply worn back.

Worn after countless acts of bending down.

To pick up the lints off the carpet.

To pick up the spilling trash off the bin.

A slice of onion that jumped off the cutting board.

A pill that fell on the floor. That she then blew a puff of air, then kissed to god.

The daily paper off the drive way.

Wet laundry load off the washer, that she then moved to the dryer.

Dry laundry load off the dryer, that she folded then handed to a resident.

Strand of hair off the bathtub drain.

She attempted to silence her noisy mind, so she put on the Elvis gospel CD into the boombox,

She picked up her leather cased bible, then read another verse.

She got on her feet while still wearing her work uniform of green flip-flops and grey scrubs with yellow trims.

she walked to the shower in the bathroom adjoining her bedroom. Her pace became slower when she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

She sighed. Out of relieve or out of exhaustion, she could no longer tell the difference.

She approached the mirror slowly so not to spook her own reflection. She tilted up her face slightly then brought it closer to the mirror. She began a dialog with her wrinkles. She wanted to ask them if the promise of the over-priced olay-regenerist cream held true. She checked how her roots are doing to see if they needed dying.

The fact that people (of any kind: indonesian, white, black, young, old) constantly underestimate her real age and mistake her grandchildren as her children always cushioned her worries of aging.

However in this strange land where she's always forced to toil her labor even in her old age, there are always worries about dying vainly. In this strange land.

One of her favorite nightmare scenario is dying from a heart attack while cooking green bean casserole. A dish she hates because she's always forced to over cook her favorite vegetable to the point of mush.

Something was out of place with her insides. She felt the sudden urge to take a shit, an activity she usually regulated in the morning, but never this late at night. She started to pull down her grey cotton-poly blend draw-string pants (and soon the rest of her clothes) for the purpose of washing her self down in the shower.

But the urge was becoming stronger and stronger. She had to comply. While her pants still tied themselves around her ankle, she wobbled in three or four rushed steps flopping her feet against her flip flops that inadvertently resulted in a pleasing percussive sound. Like a drum fill-in to a chorus, a transition. She quickly pulled down her champagne color laced panties. Then, a small explosion.

She continued to sit on the toilet quietly lip-synching "bring me closer to thee" by elvis. She wanted to wait to find out if her bowel aberration was finished. It felt like it had. She checked for the tenderness in her stomach to question if everything was alright. After all, her body is her last refuge. Especially her insides.

After decades of deliberately selecting what goes in and what doesn't,

After long accepting her lost youth and beauty,

After long accepting that in life there's too many malevolent forces that would permanently ruin the suppleness of her once perfect face and skin,

The only pillow she took comfort in is the fact that she always and still was able to manage her heartbeat through deep breathing.

She could still confidently clench her vaginal muscles to stop the flow of urine.

And she could keep a tight schedule of her bowel movement.

Right this moment, Something was out of place.

After a painfully ordinary day, and an ordinary routine of bodily functions.

This she did not expect.

(to be continued)