A half-timbered house

In the afternoon, the heat upstairs is unbearable. So you’re here, sitting on a couch downstairs. You don’t know where you got this couch from, and you don’t want to know. You appreciate it. You don’t care about the black spots, the yellow stains, or the faded color. You’re just tired of the sunlight all the way back from school. A smell of something dead hits your nose. “A rat?” You keep sniffing, but the smell fades away. Now you’re staring at this damp wooden door instead, the same door you have to push hard to close. Your father said it’s swollen because of the rain. He said a lot about wood. And bricks. And the ceiling. 

You feel sleepy when you think about rain. You love being in bed covered with your mother’s blanket, especially when a storm brings heavy rain to your house. It makes you feel like you’re living under a waterfall. Despite all the whooshes and splashes, you are tugged just inside this magic shield. That blanket is your favorite blanket. You can look through some parts of it. “Maybe that is why it feels so soft?” You wonder.

Your stomach starts to feel like it’s tearing up. You remember the foam box of rice in the cupboard. “They gave it to me. It’s rice with crispy pork,” said your father. “Can you eat it? It’s a bit spicy.” He handed it to you. Inside, you saw red curry paste covering almost all the rice. But ‘yes’ was your answer, so he could ride his motorbike somewhere outside and leave you alone.

Silence has filled the room until now. It comforts you. You think about puppies and how you would take care of them if you had one. You wouldn't feed them spicy stuff. “It would be too spicy for them,” you think. As your stomach cries for food again, you decide to eat. 

You grab the last bottle of water and sit on the wooden plank floor. You’ve switched the fan to number three. The food is already cold. You eat and wish your father would come home when you’re in a deep sleep. You try not to think about your mother so much. You know she'll be home by tomorrow evening. Then, you'll have to use your blanket and give hers back to her, but it'll be okay. 

The pork is spicy. The rice is a bit hard, but you like to taste its sweetness as you chew. In front of the fan, you start to sweat again as it gets spicier and spicier. You take a sip of water. Then you have another spoonful of rice. And another sip. And the last bite. And a large draught of water. And now, you’re full. You wipe your sweat and snot with the sleeves of your school shirt. You try to open the rusty window for some breeze, but it gets stuck, so you can only leave it slightly open. You miss the coolness in that kid’s bedroom in the neighborhood. That time you hung out with them, they had an AC and a big fan turned on at the same time, erasing all the heat away like magic.

After cleaning the mess, you walk on the plank and listen to those creaking sounds as you go. You put the foam box into the bin. At the back of the house, it’s open-air. Plywood sticks tied together like a raft are sitting on the rocky ground. You’ve known it as a place to wash dishes and pots and pans. A tiny short plastic chair sits on this raft. You stare at a pile of dirty dishes. And for a moment, you put the spoon in a plastic basin. You sit on the plastic chair; its size fits you perfectly. A rose apple tree stands next to you. It’s bending the branches above you toward the canal beside.

Turn the water on, and rinse those plates full of leftovers. You grab the sponge and dishwasher soap while looking at the muddy canal. Some water hyacinths are floating slowly along the current. “Like the clouds in the sky,” you think. You stared at them this morning. You scrape those plates one by one. 

You think they’re the most beautiful when the sun is going down, the sky and the clouds. Staring at them makes you feel like they are trying to tell you something, something soothing to hear. So you keep watching them every single day, quietly, in the morning, afternoon, evening, and sometimes even at night. The wind blows into your face as you rinse the plates for the final round. You now think about homework. “Math, Thai, and English. Three.” You count your soapy fingers and get a bit stressed. You want your sister to be home already, even though she won’t be able to help you or won’t want to. You don’t know why you want her presence. You’re sure you don’t like her around. She likes to hit your head and call you names. After finishing all the plates, you let them dry in another plastic basin on the table inside. 

You’re feeling drowsy again, but the empty fridge suggests that you should make your way to the bottle basket, so you do. Filling up these bottles is the most boring thing, you think. Standing with a bottle in your hand, you yawn in front of the water filter every time you finish a bottle.

The clock says it’s five p.m. already as you’re filling the fridge with all the bottles. You know the next thing you should do is cook rice, ready for when Father comes home hungry. You take the pot full of dry rice outside, place it on the raft, and fill it with water until it’s full. You get back to the couch. “Have to wait.” You lie down. Without you realizing it, your eyes close and you fall asleep.