Separation (I)
Growing up, there were two things I learned about separation. One, separation hurts everytime. There is no getting used to it. Two, I hate it. I remember my first real taste of separation was when Mak decided to go back to Perak with my little sister when I was four or five, leaving me in Pahang with my big sister. I still remember chasing her down the hill at the back of our house; Mak and Iwa were on the old motorcycle, Abah sending them away for the bus. I ran with all my might, screaming Mak! Mak! with tears running down my cheek. Choked with my own tears and screams under the shadow of pokok sentul at the end of the hill, I learned that day separation hurts. My sister spent the whole day coaxing and lying. She promised me a day out at the town, for toys and stuff. She did, but Mak wasn’t home in the evening like she told me. I learned then that I hate separation. We got separated again when I was barely twelve, except this time I’ll be the one who left and I will be