By the time I was leaning sideways on my bike,
posing in front of St Paul’s,
leather jacket open,
midriff bare,
navel pierced,
chin high,
I had ridden around and around from Macao to Coloane and back again,
out on a ride with the Harley Owners Group.
Not yet married to my first husband,
unaware of the man who would become the father of my daughters.
By the next time I was in Macao,
it was with the man whose side
I never left after our first date.
The ferry ride always makes me sick.
Macao meant
his hand in mine,
fingers intertwined.
It meant
drinks at the Pousada de São Tiago,
arriving on the terrace
through the staircase tunnelled into the hillside.
It meant sardines and bacalhau at Litoral,
egg tarts at Lord Stow’s.
It mainly meant
crab,
prawns,
seafood rice,
and Vinho Verde
at Nga Tim 雅憩,
by the yard in front of the church,
me refilling his glass,
asking,
"Are you full?"
Macao meant long weekends away with him,
our daughters at home with their nanny,
disembarking the ferry at the new terminal on Taipa,
transferring to our suite at the Venetian.
It meant
me setting up our toiletries,
me hanging my spaghetti dresses in the wardrobe,
me taking him to bed,
him taking us down
to St Mark’s Square
in the mall below,
being serenaded
by the gondolier,
me snuggled up beside him.
Macao meant
two girls on tiny feet,
chasing each other
around our suite.
It meant bibs and children’s cutlery at Nga Tim,
early nights and earlier mornings still,
little girls sitting on ancient cannons overlooking Macao.
It meant small smiling faces crusty with custard,
him peeling prawns for me,
balancing baby one on his knees,
my lap holding baby two.
It meant returning home with
photos in key rings,
photos in snow globes,
of gondola rides beneath painted skies.
The same two girls,
different shoe sizes,
still asking to go around again.
The last time I was in Macao,
it was just me and Padme,
baby three eight months old at home,
the scar across my lower abdomen still tender,
after Michelle had cut,
to lift her from my body.
Collecting documents from the Portuguese Consulate,
translations,
marriage certificate,
birth certificates for
baby one,
baby two,
baby three.
Outside the Grand Lisboa,
the waterfall.
Inside,
high tea.
Back on the ferry,
to home,
to boxes,
to carton-wrapped furniture.
Portugal waiting.
