DAUS had always hoped that he would be the first to go when the time came. The thought came to him decades ago, just a fleeting idea, a whisper in his subconscious. It wasn’t something he dwelt on or something he took too seriously. After all, who could control the whims of life and death? Yet, deep down, he had always feared the unbearable loneliness of being left behind.
Nearly five decades later, the thought no longer lingered in the abstract. It had become his reality. His wife of fifty years was gone, and Daus was left to face the days alone. Two weeks had passed since her funeral, and the house, once filled with the hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and the warmth of shared laughter, now stood silent and still.
Family and friends had come and gone, each offering condolences before returning to the rhythm of their own lives. His children, scattered across cities and continents, had stayed just long enough to ensure he wasn’t collapsing under the weight of his grief. But they had their own families and responsibilities, and Daus didn’t blame them for leaving. Still, the emptiness they left behind was deafening.
Outside, the crow of a cockerel shattered the morning hush. The sound was sharp and insistent, pulling Daus from his thoughts. The chickens needed to be fed and let out to roam the farm, and countless other chores were waiting for him. Chores, his wife had always taken care of with quiet efficiency.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The cockerel crowed again, more impatient this time. The dogs scratched at the door. They were hungry. The house was alive with responsibilities, but Daus felt none of the vitality it demanded.
“What’s the point?” he thought, his voice a whisper in the stillness.
For most of his life, Daus had lived for others. First for his wife, then for his children. They were the reason he woke up each morning, why he worked tirelessly from dawn to dusk. When the children grew up and left to carve their paths, he returned to living for his wife, cherishing her presence in the quiet years of their later life. She had been the heart of the home, the anchor of his existence.
Now, with her gone, he felt unmoored.
Reluctantly, he swung his legs over the side of the bamboo bed and pushed himself to his knees. His joints ached, his movements were sluggish, but the animals wouldn’t wait. He moved through the motions of his morning, feeding the chickens, letting them out of their coop, and filling the dogs’ bowls. Each task felt hollow, mechanical.
When he entered the kitchen, the silence hit him like a wave. It was the kind of silence that carried weight, pressing against his chest and making it hard to breathe. He set the kettle on the stove and prepared his tea, but when he sat at the table, he couldn’t bring himself to drink it. The empty bamboo chair across from him seemed to mock him, and for a brief, irrational moment, he thought he saw his wife sitting there, her hands wrapped around her cup.
The image was so vivid that Daus reached out instinctively, his hand trembling as it crossed the table. Of course, there was nothing there. The illusion dissolved, leaving only the cold, hard surface of the table beneath his palm.
Tears welled up in his eyes. They came slowly at first, then in an unstoppable torrent. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. He remembered how he had always wanted to die before her, not out of fear of death but out of fear of this unbearable emptiness, this sense of being lost in a world that no longer made sense.
Daus had been a good provider. People often told him so. They praised him, his dedication to his family. But what they didn’t see – what they couldn’t see – was how much his wife had given him in return. It wasn’t just her companionship or the way she kept the household running smoothly. It was how she made him feel grounded, how her presence filled the spaces in his soul he didn’t even know were empty.
That afternoon, a memory surfaced as Daus sat on the porch watching the chickens peck at the ground. It was a simple moment from their younger days, yet one that had stayed with him all these years. They were walking through the fields at sunset as the sky was in hues of orange and red, when his wife turned to him and said, “Life is like this, Daus … so beautiful and fleeting. We don’t get to keep it forever. That’s why it’s so precious.”
At the time, he didn’t think much of her words, but now, sitting there alone, they came back to him with a clarity that took his breath away.
The Neighbour’s Visit
Later that week, an unexpected visitor arrived. Awa, the widow whose farm was about the length of two football fields from his, called his name from outside. Accompanied by one of her little grandchildren, she was carrying freshly cooked cassava tubers wrapped in banana leaves, her weathered face kind but cautious.
“I thought you might need some company,” she said, setting the basket on the table.
Daus was taken aback. He had always been cordial with Awa, but they had never been close. Still, he found himself grateful for her presence. They sat together, sipping tea, and for the first time in weeks, Daus felt a glimmer of normalcy.
Awa shared stories of her struggles after losing her husband years ago. “It doesn’t get easier,” she admitted, “but you learn to carry it. And sometimes, you find new reasons to keep going.”
Her words stayed with Daus long after she left. He found himself mulling over them that evening, wondering if he, too, could find new reasons to keep going.
The Old Keepsake
While clearing out a warped, seldom-opened cupboard a few days later, Daus stumbled upon an old tube he carved from a bamboo stem many years before. Inside were several sheets of lined school notebook paper rolled and tied with a piece of vine that had turned brittle. He instantly recognised his love letters to his then-girlfriend when they were both young and in love. He recognised all of them, but one sheet stood out. It was not a letter, but the words were in the familiar, neat, looping handwriting. Briefly, he wished he could read, but then remembered who could.
I was playing football late one Saturday afternoon when I noticed Daus watching from the sidelines. I had not seen him for years since I attended a government secondary school in town as a boarding student several miles from the village. Sensing that he was there for a reason, I stepped out of the field and approached him.
He said, “Could you come to my house later? I’ve got something nice for you.”
I nodded and returned to the game.
Early that night, he served me a sizeable fish cooked in ‘asam pedas’. He still remembered it was one of my favourite dishes. Then, after tea was served, he handed me a piece of paper and asked me to read the text. I recognised my handwriting even after several years.
“I remember this,” I said, looking at him. “I was passing your farm one day when your wife asked me to write it down, saying it had been on her mind for a while.” Then I proceeded to read the passage to him.
“Daus doesn’t realise how much he gives me just by being here. He thinks he’s holding us together, but he doesn’t see how much I lean on him. He’s my rock, my safe place. I hope he knows how much he’s loved.”
The words brought fresh tears to his eyes. A few moments later, he said they also brought a strange sense of comfort. He explained that he had always considered himself the giver in their relationship, but hearing her words made him realise how mutual their love had been.
The Bitter-Sweet Ending
In the months that followed, Daus slowly began to rebuild his life. He started tending to the farm with more care, not because he felt obligated but because it gave him a sense of purpose.
One evening, as he watched the sun dip below the horizon, he remembered her words from that long-ago walk through the fields.
“Beautiful and fleeting,” she had said.
And she was right. Life was fleeting, but it was also beautiful. Even in its pain and loss, there was beauty in the love and memories that remained, and the quiet resilience of the human spirit.
Daus knew he would never stop missing her. The ache would always be there, a constant companion. But he also knew that life in all its imperfection was still worth living.
And so, with the cockerel crowing in the distance and the stars beginning to emerge in the twilight sky, Daus rose from his log-seat and went inside. Tomorrow would be a new day with more work to be done.
“Life goes on,” he thought, accepting his challenging situation and the need to continue living despite adversity.
He had decided to acknowledge his grief while emphasising the importance of continuing to honour the memory of his wife, adapting to the new circumstances and embracing the opportunities that lie ahead.
“Come what may!” he muttered, resolute in his desire to rebuild and move forward despite the challenges. He refused to fade away under the pressures of life. He could already visualise new paths and goals to pursue.
“The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again.’ – Charles Dickens (1812-1870), a famous English novelist and social critic known for creating some of the world’s best-known fictional characters and for his vivid portrayals of the social issues of his time. He is considered one of the greatest novelists of the Victorian era.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
