Tourists shuffle past the small shrine dedicated to her—the one draped in ribbons of Thai silk, the one littered with offerings of khanom khrok and red Fanta. They snap photos, laugh nervously, whisper “ Pee Mak ” like it’s a punchline. But I know better. Comedy is just horror that hasn’t finished digesting.
Not the statue of the Buddha. Her.
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 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.
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.
Because if you do—if you really do—you see the space around her shape. A slight warp in the light. A cold that doesn’t come from the river breeze. The sound of a woman sobbing, not in grief, but in hunger . Not hunger for rice. Hunger for an apology that never came.
I came back to the wat because the city had too many edges. Too many neon signs that cut the sky. But here, under the ordination hall’s rust-red tiles, the air is thick as old breath. The monks chant in a frequency that vibrates in my molars. I close my eyes, and she is there.
Tourists shuffle past the small shrine dedicated to her—the one draped in ribbons of Thai silk, the one littered with offerings of khanom khrok and red Fanta. They snap photos, laugh nervously, whisper “ Pee Mak ” like it’s a punchline. But I know better. Comedy is just horror that hasn’t finished digesting.
Not the statue of the Buddha. Her.
As I walk down the stone steps to the street, I feel something soft brush my shoulder. A frangipani petal. Or a hand. pee mak temple
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.
I leave a bottle of red Fanta at her shrine. The sugar is for her. The red is for the wound that never closes. Tourists shuffle past the small shrine dedicated to
Wat Mahabut, Phra Khanong, Bangkok. Present day. The canal is murky green. Incense smoke curls like ghosts trying to remember a shape.
Because if you do—if you really do—you see the space around her shape. A slight warp in the light. A cold that doesn’t come from the river breeze. The sound of a woman sobbing, not in grief, but in hunger . Not hunger for rice. Hunger for an apology that never came. Comedy is just horror that hasn’t finished digesting
I came back to the wat because the city had too many edges. Too many neon signs that cut the sky. But here, under the ordination hall’s rust-red tiles, the air is thick as old breath. The monks chant in a frequency that vibrates in my molars. I close my eyes, and she is there.
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