Goodbyes

What is the latest with you, Pimonrat?

Does anyone rest in the sala where we sat?

Is brother Ek the same - act and scream like a brat?

Can you still run like the wind, Pimonrat?

This is the beginning of a poem I wrote in 1996 (unpublished), when I was still working through my departure from Peace Corps and Thailand.  Entitled "Faces from the Past," it focused wistfully on six of my favorite students and my memories of them.  Amidst the snows and cold of the New Hampshire winter, I was having a hard time facing the idea that I might never return to Southeast Asia.  My two-year experience there had done wonders for me - it was like being reborn.

Nakhon Dee Dee

Look, and you will see ...

The pockets of heavenly light

dancing within the neat rows

of the rubber trees, that speak to the

hushed quiet at the center of things.

Turn, and you will hear ...

The cascading rhythm of the rivers

which flow from the mountains,

crashing and bounding inexorably

toward the Gulf of Thailand.

Raise your head, and you will behold ...

The looming majesty of the cliff walls

and secrets of Khaochumthong Mountain,

towering like a thumb-shaped

lighthouse over rice fields and dirt roads.

Look to the horizon, and you will sense ...

The flash of thunder in the distance

and the rustle of the wind through forest,

that warns everyone inside before

the deluge of southern rain.

Touch my chest and you will come to know ...

The rhythm of a heart beating

in unison with others, like the drums and cymbals

of late-night shadow play and country fairs,

enduring through the decades, strong and true.