“Let me finish three more.”
He doesn’t answer and I’m not sure if he’s already asleep or just ignoring me. I write each one as precisely and cleanly as possible. Not only will I turn this sheet in to Sopeap, but she will then make me repeat each letter and its sounds, both dependent and independent. Who knew reading and writing were so complicated?
When I finally put out the light and crawl beside Ki, I snuggle close and wrap my arm around him. He doesn’t respond. It’s too dark now to see him, but the pace of his breathing and the tightness of his chest tell me he is awake.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper.
Seconds pass. When he does answer, I’m surprised to hear worry rather than frustration. “What will happen once you know how to read?”
“What do you mean?”
“How will it change things?”
I have been so focused on my learning that I haven’t noticed his apprehension.
“I hope it changes many things,” I answer softly. “I hope it will somehow get us out of the dump—and if not us, that it provides a path out for Nisay. Don’t you want those things too?”
It is a long time before he replies. “I know that we don’t have a lot here,” he says cautiously. “But at least we know where we stand.”
“Where we stand? What do you mean?”
Silence. Worry in the dark can make it even darker.
“Ki? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Life here is hard,” he finally says, “but it is constant. New trash always arrives—every single day. It will never end. When we are hungry, I go out and pick a bag of plastic or metal or glass, sell it for a few riel, and we buy our food. We generally have enough to eat. We have a roof overhead to protect us from the rain. Life isn’t complicated here.”
His affinity for the dump is unexpected. For three years, we have talked about the day we’ll make enough for a better life.
“But the gangs almost killed you . . .”
And then, like a slap, it hits me. I should have picked it up sooner but I am tired from the study.
“Food and shelter—yes, we have those here,” I say, in a muted tone, “but I don’t think that’s what you are worrying about.”
He rolls to face me, though without light we can see only murky shapes.
“Living at Stung Meanchey,” he says, “forces us to work things out, to need each other. If you learn to read—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. “Ki, listen . . .” In the darkness of our tiny room, his concern is clear. “It doesn’t matter if I learn to read, or where we live, or how we earn a living—no matter what, I will need you.”
He listens, then asks another question. “But do I make you happy?”
How can a woman raising her child in a place choking with trash answer that question and have her reply make any sense? Both at the dump and in my home tonight, I’m careful where I step. “Ki, you are the part of my life that I would never change. But offering our son opportunity, working with you to improve our life together—that kind of change is good, don’t you think?”
He hesitates, thinking but also listening, and so I continue. “I just need to get Nisay better.”
“Do you think he’s sick just because of where we live?” he asks.
The answer is so apparent it nearly screams, and Ki must hear it also because before I can reply, he responds to his own question. “Of course, we do live in the dump.”
There is a silent moment, until we both break out in laughter. We hold each other in the darkness for a very long time and then, with Nisay gently stirring at the foot of our mat, Ki helps me pull off my clothes.
*****
On the days Mother can’t watch Nisay, if he is not too fussy, I lay him on the ground beneath a makeshift cardboard lean-to and pick garbage nearby in the afternoon. Lately, I have surprised Ki with my eagerness to pick, even on the days when I’m learning letters in the morning with Sopeap. What I haven’t told him is that I pick every day
He doesn’t answer and I’m not sure if he’s already asleep or just ignoring me. I write each one as precisely and cleanly as possible. Not only will I turn this sheet in to Sopeap, but she will then make me repeat each letter and its sounds, both dependent and independent. Who knew reading and writing were so complicated?
When I finally put out the light and crawl beside Ki, I snuggle close and wrap my arm around him. He doesn’t respond. It’s too dark now to see him, but the pace of his breathing and the tightness of his chest tell me he is awake.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper.
Seconds pass. When he does answer, I’m surprised to hear worry rather than frustration. “What will happen once you know how to read?”
“What do you mean?”
“How will it change things?”
I have been so focused on my learning that I haven’t noticed his apprehension.
“I hope it changes many things,” I answer softly. “I hope it will somehow get us out of the dump—and if not us, that it provides a path out for Nisay. Don’t you want those things too?”
It is a long time before he replies. “I know that we don’t have a lot here,” he says cautiously. “But at least we know where we stand.”
“Where we stand? What do you mean?”
Silence. Worry in the dark can make it even darker.
“Ki? Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“Life here is hard,” he finally says, “but it is constant. New trash always arrives—every single day. It will never end. When we are hungry, I go out and pick a bag of plastic or metal or glass, sell it for a few riel, and we buy our food. We generally have enough to eat. We have a roof overhead to protect us from the rain. Life isn’t complicated here.”
His affinity for the dump is unexpected. For three years, we have talked about the day we’ll make enough for a better life.
“But the gangs almost killed you . . .”
And then, like a slap, it hits me. I should have picked it up sooner but I am tired from the study.
“Food and shelter—yes, we have those here,” I say, in a muted tone, “but I don’t think that’s what you are worrying about.”
He rolls to face me, though without light we can see only murky shapes.
“Living at Stung Meanchey,” he says, “forces us to work things out, to need each other. If you learn to read—”
I don’t wait for him to finish. “Ki, listen . . .” In the darkness of our tiny room, his concern is clear. “It doesn’t matter if I learn to read, or where we live, or how we earn a living—no matter what, I will need you.”
He listens, then asks another question. “But do I make you happy?”
How can a woman raising her child in a place choking with trash answer that question and have her reply make any sense? Both at the dump and in my home tonight, I’m careful where I step. “Ki, you are the part of my life that I would never change. But offering our son opportunity, working with you to improve our life together—that kind of change is good, don’t you think?”
He hesitates, thinking but also listening, and so I continue. “I just need to get Nisay better.”
“Do you think he’s sick just because of where we live?” he asks.
The answer is so apparent it nearly screams, and Ki must hear it also because before I can reply, he responds to his own question. “Of course, we do live in the dump.”
There is a silent moment, until we both break out in laughter. We hold each other in the darkness for a very long time and then, with Nisay gently stirring at the foot of our mat, Ki helps me pull off my clothes.
*****
On the days Mother can’t watch Nisay, if he is not too fussy, I lay him on the ground beneath a makeshift cardboard lean-to and pick garbage nearby in the afternoon. Lately, I have surprised Ki with my eagerness to pick, even on the days when I’m learning letters in the morning with Sopeap. What I haven’t told him is that I pick every day
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