So much of what I know of my family in Thailand has been told to me in stories. Every so often, a story is more alive with sounds and smells that I can imagine. In this story of my grandfather heading home at the end of his workday, it is the smell of jasmine rice (a scent I know well) and the plunk of a watermelon (imagine a heavy stone landing in water). And we all know the sight and taste of a perfectly sweet watermelon. These small sensory windows into a long ago time and a home I hardly know, connect me in the best possible way to my grandfather. Even now, 35 years after his death, we can share an experience across generations and place.
It was the end of an ordinary day,
the close announced with metal clacking
of the gate along its tracks, the click
of a key, pedaling away from the dark
shop. First, a stop at the market to pick
up a watermelon for his family at home.
It was easy for him. Long ago, he had
worked at a watermelon farm and
knew the color and heft of one that
was just right. He pedaled home,
the melon in the basket in front,
moving through the traffic and
crowds of people also going home.
He spun into the next part
of the day, maybe thinking about
the work day behind, the home
life in front, or the places off to
the side that pulled at him, too –
his temple, the hill tribe people
he had come to know, the poor
to whom he offered food on
Tuesdays. On those days, he
was sure to offer sweets, which
gave such pleasure, and he knew
fed the place in our spirits
that needed beauty. He was
close to home now. First, the dogs
knew, waking from naps, stretching,
ready to play. The noises the
children made grew louder,
some laughter, and some arguing,
too. Even the jasmine rice on
the stove knew it was time to be
ready, releasing its fragrance
into the air. And how do I
know, so many years later,
imagining this ordinary day?
I hear the plunk of the
watermelon he dropped into
the cool depth of the well in
back. His youngest boy would
fish it out with a bucket after dinner.
It would be cut wide open on the table.
It would not be disappointing.
It would be red, glowing,
its juices spilling out, its
black seeds punctuating the
flesh in a steady line.
“Plunk!” went the melon.
The noise from the house
stopped for a moment. His
family knew, with that familiar
sound, that their father was home.
Amphibious 