micro memoir
I love pork. Especially roasted pork. But before I eat, I pause. I give thanks to the pig who gave its life so that I could be fed. Behind that love is a memory that never softened. In the late 1960s, behind my kampong house, there was a small pig
micro memoir
While having breakfast with my friend at Yakun, suddenly she slid the phone across the table. “My sister sent me these messages. Take a read” I hold the phone and read the message once, then again. She picked up her coffee and stirred it even though the sugar had already
micro memoir
My eldest sister, the light bulb of our family, the one who always switched the room on. My sister-in-law, who cooked prawns so perfectly that love tasted like garlic and heat. My mother, my earthly God, who needed no altar. My father, who never said much, but made
micro memoir
To bird keepers, it sounds like beautiful music drifting from a cage. To me, it feels like sitting in the audience while a singer cries for help from a prison cell.
micro memoir
If you invite me for kopi, I am most comfortable here. Excuse the dressing. This is who I am when I am not pretending. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
I became an entrepreneur for freedom. CEO: Me. Sales: Me. Cleaner: Me. Delivery: Me. Admin: Me. Now I work for the most demanding boss I’ve ever met. Me. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
Last Christmas, I gave you my book, and the very next day, You gave it away. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
When I went looking for companionship, the person in the mirror spoke first. “Don’t forget me,” she said. “I’m still here.” So I wrapped my arms around myself. She had been waiting all along, patient and unseen. It wasn’t loneliness. It was forgetting. PS I write books
micro memoir
I always picked the broken crayon. No one else wanted it. Just like me. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
The day I quit, the air felt lighter. By evening, my stomach asked questions I couldn’t answer yet. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
Whenever I smell dumplings, I am back in my mother’s kitchen, learning that love was something you made with your hands. PS I write books too. They live here: https://payhip.com/samchoo
micro memoir
I told my son to man up and stop making excuses. I thought I was teaching strength. I did not know I was yelling at someone who was already sinking. I only understood later, when his bed was empty, and the quiet in his room stopped feeling temporary. P.S.