'Cause Pigs can Fly

My grandmother and I never had an easy or loving relationship. There was always some kind of tension between us, ever since I was small. And as a result, I don’t have many memories with her. I remember going to her house before heading for an elocution class in the area. I remember a few yellow rice lunches at the house that was later sold and demolished. One of my clearest, earliest memories of her is from a few years ago. I was standing outside their house (the one they moved to later on), waiting for my aunt to come to the gate so I could give her something. My grandmother, returning from someplace, stepped out of a three-wheeler. I gave her whatever it was that I had made for them. She turned to go inside the house, but turned back to me and said: “I thought you hated me.” People will tell you to not talk ill of the dead. My grandmother is now dead so I guess I should talk about more pleasant memories. But I don’t think those who are alive should have to make up pleasant memori

Something I really miss about life is my ability to be by myself. In my 20s (which sounds ridiculous to say, because I was in my 20s just last year), I would spend hours by myself at cafes and restaurants and pubs, eating, drinking, reading, writing, people watching. It wasn't like I was good company. Not particularly liking yourself makes it a bit uncomfortable to spend long stretches of time all alone, with no one to talk to except for the occasional server. And yet, I really liked these hours I had to myself. I liked the sense of just being. Not having to prepare for a conversation. Not having to wait for someone. Not having to be some version of myself. However, somewhere along the way, things changed, and I stopped spending time with myself. Recently, I was to meet some friends and had some time to kill. And so, I went to the place we were to meet and got some reading time in. I had around two hours to myself, and the server made a comment on how my friends were late. I told h