The Paper Airplane

My Grab car is eternally 12 minutes away, no matter how many times I refresh the app. I’ve chosen the worst time - the evening rush hour - to run mum’s errands, but the decision was made impetuously, as decisions of this sort are usually made, driven by the need for breathing space, some small solitude, rather than by the tasks themselves. I sigh inwardly, and am about to tap on the Pokemon GO icon on my phone (the game is, as my children well know, my secret poison) when Airplane Uncle strides into the lobby. He sees me at the same time that I notice him. We nod ceremoniously at each other, like paired dancers in a ballroom waiting for the music to begin; he, a long-term resident at the nursing home and me, a beleaguered older daughter, visiting my parents.

I’d heard of Airplane Uncle before I’d actually met him. In my parents’ apartment some months before, I’d been looking for a photo album gone amiss, and upon pulling open a drawer, had discovered it stuffed with brightly coloured paper planes. “Since when?” I asked, surprised (and secretly delighted) that one or both of my parents had taken up origami. “Since Airplane Uncle moved in,” replied mum. “He makes planes, gives them out to everyone.” She paused slightly, reading my arched eyebrow. “Haiya, I got a few for your dad, since he likes looking at them. And a couple for Anna and Ben, for them to play with next time they visit.” Mum still felt the need to offer justification despite Anna and Ben - my children - being teenagers and well past their paper plane playing days, and even though I knew well enough that she’d amass and hoard anything offered for free (a compulsion that, as my children well know, I’ve inherited).

Since the drawer discovery and after unravelling a few of the paper planes to see if there were any hidden romantic messages inside from Airplane Uncle to mum - there weren’t - I began to have my own encounters with Airplane Uncle. Someone who had been completely invisible to me was suddenly around every corner. The first introduction as I walked with my parents to the games room. An exchange of pleasantries in a corridor. Head nods across a crowded dining room. Hand waves from the balcony of the 2nd floor to the 1st floor. And now, standing side by side at the reception desk of the home.

I still have 12 minutes to kill until my ride shows up. The perfect opportunity to strike up a conversation (starting chats with pretty much anyone is, as my children well know, something I do habitually). “Uncle, are you still making your planes?” I chirp. My Mandarin skills are rudimentary, but competent enough for simple conversations. Airplane Uncle’s eyes light up, and his smile widens. “Oh yes, all the time,” he replies. “Have you always made them, since you were a child?” He shakes his head. “No, just recently.” It turns out that Airplane Uncle only developed his paper airplane obsession some ten years ago, around the time he turned 80. I gaze at the nonagenarian with a newfound respect. “Next time Uncle, you show me how to make ah!” The words escape my lips even as I notice that the Grab car wait time has dropped to 11 minutes. “Can! I can show you now!” Interpreting my teasing words as a request for an immediate lesson, Airplane Uncle reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. I’m about to protest but - thinking better of it - close my mouth.

Together with Mr H, the reception staff who always wears an indecipherable smile on his lips, I watch Airplane Uncle as he smooths the paper on the reception counter. The sheet is a bright, highlighter pink colour, unmarked save for oddly positioned rows of text and seemingly random symbols. Airplane Uncle carefully positions the paper with the focus and deliberation of a sushi chef contemplating his omakase offering, and begins. Fold, crease, fold. Tuck, flip over, fold again. Press, tuck, fold. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The folding is accompanied by Airplane Uncle’s tutorial in gentle Mandarin, each step patiently explained and demonstrated, with sufficient pauses in between so the information can sink in. I don’t have the heart to tell my instructor that I only understand, at most, a third of what he’s saying. Nevertheless, I instinctively feign comprehension, fake nod with the weight of newly-bestowed wisdom, voice encouraging “ahh’s” and “ohh’s” (a knack I’ve learned, as my children should know, from my years of interactions with them). As we watch, I notice, for the first time, the trembling in Airplane Uncle’s fingers. I can’t help but wonder. How much longer. How many more planes.

A paper plane, resembling a fighter jet of some sort, morphs from between Airplane Uncle’s hands. With the flourish of a violinist at the end of a performance, Airplane Uncle whips out a small stapler from his other trouser pocket and clips the middle of the plane together. Voila. He presents the finished plane to me and I graciously accept with both hands as I would a business card at a meeting. “OK, you go over there.” Airplane Uncle motions for me to move away from him. Perplexed, I step about 10 feet away. Understanding dawns. I lift my arm and release the plane. It glides, slicing through the air like a pink falcon for a heart-stopping few seconds before coming to rest on the floor. “Zhen bang!” I exclaim jubilantly as Mr H claps. Airplane Uncle takes a bow (or did I imagine it?) and we continue this back-and-forth game of catch; Airplane Uncle launching the plane towards me and me casting the plane back in his direction, even as my phone begins to vibrate incessantly with notifications that my Grab driver has arrived, in fact some minutes ago now, and is waiting.

By the time I walk out to the main gate of the home, my Grab car has disappeared and my five star rating with it. I click on the app to order another car (20 minutes away now) and gaze into the sky, still translucent with day. As tiny birds flock towards the trees in intermittent swarms, I look at my paper plane, realising for the first time that the words and symbols on the paper have magically aligned themselves to the shape of the plane. I am, as usual (as my children well know), a little late to the game. It all makes sense now. I have 20 minutes to live, with a paper airplane in my hands.