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.
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. pee mak temple
So she stayed.
Wat Mahabut, Phra Khanong, Bangkok. Present day. The canal is murky green. Incense smoke curls like ghosts trying to remember a shape. She doesn’t look at me
They don’t tell you that a temple is just a wound that learned to grow gold leaf. But at the edge of my vision—just at
Not the statue of the Buddha. Her.