I put down the phone; looked at the clock; called out to my wife; rushed through shower; dashed to the car, not forgetting to put on my clothes; hurried my wife into the car; started the engine; switched on the light; reversed the car out of the garage; and drove towards my destination, wishing the car could fly.
Not wanting to be late, I stepped on the pedals a little bit harder; railed round a few corners a little bit faster; overtook a few cruising cars at frustratingly slow speed with a bit more recklessness; and risked a few more summons by dashing through a few maybe-yellow-maybe-red traffic lights.
Relieved that the bus was not there when we arrived, I stopped the engine. Rolling down the window, I let out the air that’d been trapped ebbing and flowing in the car, and let the night cool air fill the car. We waited. The darkness and quietness of the night were broken only by the sparse traffic.
At last, the bus arrived. My wife and I alighted the car, already smiling with the thought of the impending reunion.
Waves of hands greeted the two people who brought me to this world, and big hugs, big big hugs, welcomed the other two who brought the world to me.
Finally, the hole that emerged in my heart when my parents took my two kids to Singapore to visit my brother and their cousins, the hole that had been draining all colours from my soul for 6 days, 10 hours, 23 minutes, and ... 18 seconds, was plugged.