But at the edge of my vision—just at the edge—a woman in a traditional pha sin adjusts a flower in her hair. Her skin is the color of old ivory. Her eyes are two black canals.
She doesn’t look at me. She looks at the river. The same river she drowned in, the same river where her husband’s boat once floated, the same river that still carries the reflection of a world that asked her to leave but never showed her the door. pee mak temple
As I walk down the stone steps to the street, I feel something soft brush my shoulder. A frangipani petal. Or a hand. But at the edge of my vision—just at
Outside, a long-tail boat grumbles past on the canal. A child runs laughing through the courtyard. The novice monk finishes sweeping and bows toward the main Buddha image. No one screams. No one points. She doesn’t look at me
I leave a bottle of red Fanta at her shrine. The sugar is for her. The red is for the wound that never closes.
Wat Mahabut, Phra Khanong, Bangkok. Present day. The canal is murky green. Incense smoke curls like ghosts trying to remember a shape.