Not the statue of the Buddha. Her.
I sit on the cool stone floor. A novice monk, no older than fourteen, sweeps dried frangipani petals from the steps. He doesn’t look at the shrine. No one looks directly at it. Not for long. pee mak temple
I leave a bottle of red Fanta at her shrine. The sugar is for her. The red is for the wound that never closes. Not the statue of the Buddha
As I walk down the stone steps to the street, I feel something soft brush my shoulder. A frangipani petal. Or a hand. A novice monk, no older than fourteen, sweeps
Mae Nak. Pee Mak’s wife. The one who loved so hard her spirit refused to leave the womb, the bamboo bed, the narrow soi by the canal. They say her ghost still haunts these grounds. That she stands at the back of the main hall, holding a lotus flower and a grievance.