The Sound of Lights (Part 1)

Lonely nights are all that I think about. The dreaded weight of being alone is never-ending. As I gaze upon the stars, my mind races constantly with thoughts of “When will it be my time?” I never thought to suspect maybe I’ll ever get a chance, but only one can hope.

“Tatiana!” a voice screamed out from over the fence.

The night was frigid. It was slowly getting much cooler as the fall breeze crept in. It is the right temperature for me to enjoy the night sky without a heavy-duty jacket. Looking at the nighttime sky was never a favorite pastime of mine when I was younger, but it just grew on me. Admiring the number of stars in the sky and seeing the distant, colorful dust reflecting off the sun eventually became a new hobby of mine.

“Tatiaannnaaa!”, another wave of screaming calling out from over the fence. Ughhh. Why am I filled with the burden of being an older sister? Will my time ever come to walk away? I sarcastically thought to myself. It wasn’t as if I hated my mother and only sister; I just wanted my own. Is that too much to ask for?

My old green backpack was on the ground next to me. As I hurried to pack up, I realized my things were soaked. There was a puddle hidden in the grass underneath. Why did I have to put my bag there? “Tati—” “I’m coming! Geez!” I shouted back, annoyed.

It’s not every day I get to spend my peace on the open grasslands before a life-changing trip. Who am I kidding? It’s not life-changing; it’s just another mishap waiting to fail.

My summers have mostly been gloomy. No surprise, thrills of happiness or peace. Just the presence of dread. It was time for me to make up for the time spent in solitude and venture out West…

Or East.

“Hurry up, Mom’s been looking for you. She needs help making Mr. Sun’s cake.” That’s my sister, Margaret. She can be a pain in the butt, but she’s a loving pain in the butt. She’s the one person I can always count on. She’s given me a kind of confidence I can’t really explain, even if it doesn’t fix my low self-esteem. I owe her a milkshake.

“Let’s go! I haven’t eaten yet, and I’m hungry!” Margaret said. Mom was also cooking. She said she was making lasagna tonight, which I hadn’t had in a while. The smell of cheese and ground bison meat reminded me of the summers spent on my grandparents' ranch. It was an all-too-familiar smell that I enjoyed.

I jumped over the fence with the bit of agility my 26-year-old had left. All hope was not lost; I was still able to squat and bend my knees, just not as fast. My sister looked at me with a frustrated look, which I knew all too well. My footsteps began to quicken. I did not want to hear the agitating tone of her voice in the moment as we walked towards the house.

I could feel her eyes on me. It was like a cold glare of annoyance. With the little bit of composure and restraint I had, I just ignored the feeling.

Suddenly, we reach the door. The smell of food mixed with the sweet scent of sugar and eggs flew from around the door sill.

It was almost midnight. “Why did Mom decide to cook and bake a cake so late?” I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I walked through the front door and into the kitchen. My soaking wet backpack, of course, was not welcome within 5 feet of the living space, so it hung with the rest of the coats and shoes near the doorway.

“Hey, Tati! Can you get the cake out of the oven and place it on the kitchen table? I need you to make the icing,” her Mom said while putting the last layers of cheese on top of the lasagna. “Dinner will be done in an hour.”

I grabbed the sugar, butter, vanilla, and milk.

Mixing the ingredients in the bowl, my mind began to wander. Needless to say, my mind always wanders. I am in a period of understanding who I am. My life isn’t as straightforward as everyone else's. It has taken an unusual turn.

Quitting my corporate job in San Francisco was a spur-of-the-moment choice. I didn’t really have a plan, but I knew I couldn’t stay there.

“Have you decided what time you’re leaving early for your flight on Tuesday?” my mother said as she washed the last remaining dishes in the sink with her soapy, wrinkled hands.

I haven’t really decided but I can’t tell her that. Unfortunately, my mother is the type of woman who tends to go into panic mode, or what I like to call “The Perchys. I don't remember how I came up withthe name, but when she begins to stress or become overstimulated, that's what I call it.

I decided to move to Malaysia. Why? I’m not really sure. I wanted a new place, a new outlook. I just needed something different.

Taking this huge step was my wake-up call.