A face I can’t remember is laughing with me. 

We’re sipping from Teh botol in a room that was tiny even when everything seemed big. 

Shelves twice my size are stocked with food recognizable from my moms cooking. 

We’re doodling on the wall, forbidden, but forgetting about getting scolded. 

A small fridge, low to the floor, is filled with ready-to-eat, home cooked meals. 

We’re sitting with strangers, eating together, yellow rice, marinated egg, wrapped in banana leaves. 

You don’t really like me, neither do I, but we get along regardless.

One day, I pass by your store again. Anything not covered by wooden boards is charred black.

Somewhere, whoever threw it in your window, full of hate, is walking free.

Somewhere, I imagine you in the same crowded room

Our drawings on the wall are not yet burned, and we laugh together again.