Apple crumble

Love comes in many forms.

I still remember feeling my chest swelling with happiness upon hearing the sound of the gate opening and the soft purr of a car signaling my father’s return from his work after a night away in a different state.

I also remember the warmth that fills my soul as I hear my brother’s voice in front of the house, returning from tarawih prayer, half screaming in joy at the sight of the Mercedes Benz parked cozily in the parking space, and the way his footsteps and energy reverberates as he enters the house, bursting in with radiance greeting the one man he grew up with, an innocence that only he can possess.

I remember looking up from the soft green sofa and greeted with white enshrouded backs. The backs of wan and mak, in their telekung, both now weak in the legs, consumed by age, seated on plastic chairs, praying two rakaat after Isyak prayer.

I remember the silent humm of the house on that night, filling in every nook with radiance, comfort, peace. Like the warmth and crunchiness of the apples of an apple crumble, baked to golden. Warm and sweet, with a grunge of texture perfecting the stimulus. My apple crumble.

That night, nothing else seems to matter more than savoring the taste of the night. A love that I know will not last, so let time stop, imprint it on letters, and let the crumbs spill all over the world.

Recommended song: Nap of a star - TXT