We used to drive to Toys R Us,
him in the back
singing the shark song again and again—
do do do do do do—
and I'd mime despair at the wheel
but secretly love it,
the way he'd put his whole body into the words.
The aisles were primary colours, waist-height shelves,
stuffed animals fat as clouds.
He'd go quiet the moment we entered,
reverent, both hands out,
touching everything.
That was the gift then: just going.
The choosing. The maybe this one.
The yes.
Toys R Us is still there, at the end of the wing.
We walk past it.
In the atrium: a booth, two young people in lanyards,
a banner:
Brochures fanned out on a folding table.
Next to it, a Singtel shop,
strip lighting, an ah lian behind the counter
who looked like she hadn't slept all night,
who slides the card across without looking up.
He's waiting on the bench outside,
doing something on the screen
that I don't understand,
happy the way he is happy now,
a different happiness,
quieter and further in.
I stand at the shop entrance,
looking at the card.
The two young people rearranging their brochures.
Nobody stopping.
Then I find him,
and I hold it out,
and he lights up the way he always did—
he still does that, still—
and when he takes it
I keep hold
just the once
for a second.
He's already typing.