LOVE, Kloudiia

I was lucky.

Even though I burnt my lunch and dinner the day before–an entire six-inch organic spinach pizza. But because that one afternoon of bad timing–just five minutes–was sandwiched between two good days, so I was one happy woman after all.

Before that day, I had visited a friend’s house. Condo, she called it. Townhouse, I told Donna what we, in Singapore, would refer her humble abode to.

The outside view of her home

When I stepped into her home, immediately I could feel affection bubbling all over, surrounding me like bags of well-hugged pillows that still retained the warmth and cosiness after you’ve wrapped in them in a long, deep and satisfied slumber. I’m sure such warmth must have overflowed from her to fill the entire living room. The plush sofa abetted this good feeling too.

In the hallway at the entrance - this board is historical!

As Donna introduced me to each section of her home, I felt like I was travelling through time. Back, to be more precise, to two generations before me. The earthy living room, airy and relaxing butterfly room-her indoor patio, loving bedroom, historical work room, enchanting basement and crowded garage seemed to come together all at once, and yet separately, to melt me into this huge and rich heritage of her’s and her family’s.

The aged photo of Donna’s grandmother’s family in the basement showed a group of people all dressed in elegant Victorian dresses and suits, looking thoughtful and formal. I guess taking photos at that era was really something to be taken very seriously for. Another photo grasped our attention: a lovely little girl with short blonde curls wearing a simple frock stood beside a mature woman playing the piano. Hands on her cheeks, head tilted, slightly tip-toed, the girl’s eyes and expression spoke volumes. This photograph, dated in 1900s (or was it 1800s?) held so many untold stories that time stopped momentarily as Donna and I fleshed out the scene dizzyingly in our writerly minds.

And then, there’s the table lamp at the foot of the staircase leading to the basement. The stained-glass lookalike shade reflected rays of red, green, white and yellow onto the cream walls, instantly enveloping the room with life and just a little bit of, well, romance.

Donna’s bedroom was another treasure cove. For the first time in my life, I heard the musical tunes of rain chimes, mesmerizing me right to my bones. Knowing that no one time would it produce the exact same notes made it more magical. The lushness of the greenery right outside her window would bring out even the most resistant workaholic soul inside you to drown that busy voice, bury your emails, and truly relax. Her mother’s handy recipe box held handwritten and typed out instructions to cook in rectangular cards, filed in alphabetical indexes. She must be an organised woman, I thought.

Her mother's recipes!

Oh, the chests, I must not neglect the chests! The old mahogany chest seemed to be a staple in an American’s home. Well, at least I got this impression. And these chests are usually inherited from their parents, some even grandparents, together with all the memories revolving around them. Donna had three chests in her home, one even handmade by her father. And that wasn’t the only piece of furniture crafted from his pair of strong and useful hands.

Donna’s newly setup writing area was a corner of love. Her mother’s writing desk was a clever wooden contraption where the centre section was cutout and could be flipped over to hold a typewriter. Ancient, dusty and very precious, this black and silver metal literary machine belonged to her late husband. It sat on the table, stately, motivating Donna to write her first book. I couldn’t take my eyes off this beauty as it brought me back to the time when I had my very first typewriter. Non-electrical, like this one, weighing a tonne. I took a bus to that person’s home and lugged it home. Can you feel this thirteen-year-old’s burning desire to learn to type? I would spend all day and night torturing my fingers punching those stubbornly hard keys to soften its stance and bring up its long arm to print the correct letters on the yellowed, elderly paper. ASDFJKL, ASDFJKL, I monotonously repeated the routine. In a month, the obstinate typewriter and me were buddies.

The Ancient Typewriter

We left her workroom and ventured into the butterfly room, a space so in tune with nature. The refreshingly crisp air awoke my slightly hazy mind instantly. My stomach growled. ‘Donna,’ I said sheepishly, ‘I think it’s time we eat those cheese and crackers. Shall we?’

‘Oh sure, of course!’ she said excitedly.

I quickly filled our plates with two varieties of gouda cheese, a generous portion of hummus and every cracker available in her pantry to create a pretty and delicious platter. With wine in her hand and juice in mine, we trotted to the indoor patio and took our tea, close to nature. This place was so neat that I would have spent all day there.

Donna in her Butterfly Room!

Read the words . . .

But of course, nothing beats good company. And I had great company that day. Donna and I just chatted about anything that just popped up our minds, and I could feel the conversation flowing seamlessly like a gentle river coursing through the plains, the meadows and the hills.

I couldn’t have had a more wonderful time.

Then again, there’s the outing two days later.