The weather was overcast that afternoon, and as usual, I was the one driving. For years, almost every family journey had placed me behind the steering wheel. My wife was never very confident about driving, so I had grown used to carrying the road for everyone.
But that day, I was tired.
Then Ain said,
“Ayah, Ain nak drive. Kalau tak, Ain rasa nak pening.”
(Dad, let me drive. Otherwise, I might start feeling dizzy.)
I was more than happy to let her take over.
She had only had her licence for about a year, but she drove confidently. I moved to the passenger seat and felt an immediate sense of relief. For once, I could sit back, watch the road, and let someone else carry part of the long journey.
My wife sat in the second row. At the back, my twelve-year-old son kept talking and laughing with his nine-year-old sister. Their mother occasionally reminded them not to be too noisy. They would joke, tease each other, and sometimes push it far enough for one of them to end up crying.
It was noisy, but it was the familiar noise of family.
Near Permaisuri, Terengganu, we came across a lorry carrying several massive logs.
From inside the car, the timber looked enormous. Each trunk seemed to carry the weight of many years. I found myself wondering how long those trees had stood in the forest before ending up on the back of that lorry.
There was something unsettling about the sight.
We need timber. It becomes houses, doors, furniture and countless things we use without much thought. It also provides work and income for many families. Yet seeing the logs before they became useful objects made their absence from the forest feel more visible.
Perhaps that was the conflict. Human life depends on nature, but our needs often leave a mark on it.
The sight brought back my late father.
He once worked in the logging section of a company that no longer exists. Whenever we came across a timber lorry, I would ask him,
“Abah, tu balak apa?”
(Dad, what kind of timber is that?)
He would laugh softly before beginning his explanation.
Looking at those logs that afternoon, I could almost hear that small laugh again.
Once, I was the child sitting beside my father, asking questions while he carried us along the road.
Now, I was the father sitting beside my daughter, relieved that she could carry us for a while.
Behind me, the younger children were still laughing.
Life rarely announces that time has passed.
Sometimes, it simply gives us a different seat.
