Stop scratching, Mama hisses, flicking my six-year-old fingers off my calves. Jangan garuk. No one will go out with a girl with scars on her legs. I press down on the welts instead, hoping to dull the bites of prophecy. You must have sweet blood, Nenek chirps. Armed with oil-covered aluminum lids in each hand, my grandmother returns from the kitchen and begins her attack on the shadows. Tengok, she shows me, her oily snares now speckled with mosquitoes. Flattened. Flightless. Trapped. I smile and lean my body against hers, free falling into the warmth of my grandmother’s gentle rage.
Elita Suratman lives in Georgia (sometimes strangely not so different from her birthplace of Singapore), making up for lost time by writing and watching sunsets. elitasuratman.com Instagram: @elita.suratman X: @ElitaSuratman