Murmur 2 · Serangoon
Slope after rain
Rain rearranges Serangoon into a shinier version of itself. The slope near the market becomes a brief river for ten minutes then a mirror for twenty. I walk down the centre where shoes rarely go because I trust the grip of my soles today.
Water carries leaves into the drain in a procession that looks planned. I follow with my eyes and miss a step on purpose to feel the splash. Childish acts keep adulthood from stiffening completely.
The railing gleams. Someone tied a plastic bag around a loose post weeks ago and nobody removed it. The bag fills with rain and becomes a temporary lantern without light.
An auntie umbrella passes me with a nod that means we both chose walking over waiting. Singapore after rain is a contract: everyone agrees to tolerate small inconveniences without complaint.
Halfway down I stop at the landing where the view opens toward the avenue. Cars send sheets across the kerb. I time my next steps between the sheets the way I time sentences when editing.
A cat watches from under a parked van with the dignity of a landlord. It does not invite petting. I respect the boundary and note the colour of its eyes for no reason other than pleasure.
At the bottom I wipe my feet on grass that is not mine. Guilt lasts a second. The market awning drips in rhythm with the gutter. I buy peanuts to have a reason to stand still.
Writing about rain risks sounding decorative. I aim instead for accurate cold ankles and the smell of diesel mixed with pandan from a nearby stall. Sentiment can arrive later without invitation.
Climbing back up is the honest part of the walk. Thighs disagree politely. I pause at the bag-lantern and decide it is art if only until the cleaner cuts it free.
The slope will dry before noon. I will forget and be surprised again next week. That repetition is a kind of friendship with place.
Murmur 2 stayed in draft while I tested endings that refused to moralise. I want readers to leave with sensation, not instructions.
Serangoon humidity returned before publishing. The paragraph about rain still felt accurate even though the sky cleared.
I read aloud in the kitchen. The fridge hum exposed lazy verbs and rewarded concrete nouns like railing, cup, stair.
If your estate differs from mine, substitute your own landmarks mentally. The emotional scale should still fit.
Notebook pages for this murmur carry smudges from teh tarik. Digital copies hide that history yet keep the sentences.
