Of Riversides and A Thousand Yellow Daisies

We sat by the riverside.

The sun was setting but the Chao Phraya was still teeming with traffic.

I looked across to the Rama VIII bridge and told him the funny story of how Almas and I had tried to get a tuk-tuk driver to take us to the bridge and the ensuing misunderstandings and shenanigans.

He laughed appropriately but his eyes were strange. I would have thought them troubled if I knew him better. But I did not.

We talked of his grandparents, those kind souls who had taken in my poor orphaned mother and who had very kindly treated my siblings and I as their grandchildren too.

All of a sudden, he took out his wallet and rummaged in it and pulled out two rosary beads, rich, dark brown like Daddy’s. They reminded me of comfort and security and Daddy’s rough cheek when I kissed him after every rosary.

- For you. We were each given two of Grandpa’s rosary beads when he died.

- I have kept them all these years and I want you to have mine.

I must have protested. I don’t really remember.

But I remember his eyes as he looked away – confused, afraid, an infinity of pain and unspoken emotions.

Would it not have been better had you not spoken?

Would it not have been better if you had left me with the beads to wonder forever what lay behind those eyes of yours?