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i'm on my way back down to the house. the island is beckoning my soul to fly towards it with a radiant light. the sun sits on the mantle of noon, marking is path with a soft glowing warmth.
i'm scared. it's the fear of having to leave this place. leaving in such a brief moment of time. this is the place that so many things about my Self could be explored and smoothed out; the crumpled unknown personal history of mine boxed-up for so long.
crossing the bridge to the island, i can see the numerous fisherman's nets situated in the shallows; the sun glistening on the water and all of a sudden the great golden body of a reclining buddha beams into my view. it's an overwhelming sight, and i know i'm home.
the house is about four to five years old. it's a beautiful open and spacious home with an ancient thai-styled theme to the structure. there is a calm and languid breeze that gently blows through the quiet small grove of fruit trees.
my grandmother looks great. she is 96 years-old. she's sitting up at i walk into her room, which is bathed in a brilliant daylight. she looks at me in the eyes and smiles. she knows who i am, and we hold hands and just stare at each other. all around me is laughter and delight.
i can't bear to tell her i'm only staying for one night, because i don't want her to be heartbroken. she demands to get into her wheelchair and be carted around outside, so that we can spend the most time together as possible. we have never actually spoken words between us. not ones that both of us have understood anyways. i can count the times on one hand that we have been in each other's company, and this meeting marks a sixth time.
my uncle is driving my mom and i back out to to the city of Songkhla. my mom and i are sharing our last morning together, before i have to return to bangkok. we speak about when she is going home and about how i feel about being here; almost all alone sometimes. the countryside floats by like a leaf on a river.
a long stretch of silence wedges itself in our space for a bit, then i find myself dreamingly looking out of the window at the beach of my childhood passing by in the morning sun. i look over to her, and we had one of those unspoken moments that define connection and understanding. she says to me, as if on some unearthly beautiful cue, "this is life."
i am almost losing it right there in the car, but i'll save most of it for the mini-van-ride home. i love my mom for this moment and for so much more. she is telling me that soon she's going to have to cut her hair. for the past few weeks she's had to keep it up in a small ponytail to hide the exact length.
she says in a soft tone that my grandmother knows she's going back to the states when she cuts her hair short; that she knows what it means when my mom cuts her hair short. a deep sadness fills me in the car, because of this small simple nod of respect to my grandmother's heart. we're holding hands and she is shaking. at 96 years-old, my grandmother could do with as little heartbreak as possible.
we're eating breakfast at one of my uncle's restaurants in Songkhla. His eyes are bright but his face hangs sad; a weathered look on the face of a man that know's too much stress. all of my distant relatives are flocking over to the store and bring their friends along. they are holding me by the arms, shaking them wildly and smiling. my body is on fire with happi(a sea of sad)ness; this is the happiness of receiving people who all love and miss you all at once.
all of their comments are echoing in my ears, and i cannot stop smiling; each of their small full praises are breaking my heart one word at a time in succession. i'm standing in the small restaurant and inside i am broken. the clock on the wall ticks away at the last precious moments i have here with a ceaseless brooding rhythm.
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