Damai by Cheryl Tan (16, Singapore)

In light how I am flying. The path to the beach is pebbled with joggers, kissed by friendly passers-by. I am cycling with the sea in my eyes. Yellow brine smell everywhere. I am in love with it all. There’s a cup of tea somewhere, soft like rooibos, tart as Earl Grey, spinning on the axis of tomorrow. I’m making tomato soup when I come back. Roasted tomatoes and crisp carrots. Marmite in warm oats. Garlic confit spread out good and thin. I am looking forward to that.

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Dogs in baskets by the dozen. Greyhounds with skinny legs. Maybe I’ll text Jemma good morning, have a good chat with my neighbour. Try playing a tune on the piano. Listen to one of Andrew’s hymns, give Rabbit comments on his novella. Away from the handle I stretch out a hand. Listen. Give me breaths rippled by day. Two worn feet of clay. Tease my hair down with the wind. Within me my mouth chokes up a storm and settles in a flurry, smoothed by the lining of my tongue. The bumpy flesh linoleum.

A question unfurls in my mind. Is this it?

The answer comes easily. Yes, yes, it flutters in my hand. Yes it is.