Isan

Mae Phosop sat undisturbed by the soft footfalls of the young man as he quietly made his way to the gate. After he was gone the stillness closed like a curtain around her body. Rain struck the corrugated metal roof above her head. The slow rhythmic “pblink—pblink-pblink—pblunk” quickened its pace and intensity. The tinny roar of the rain sounded in the old woman’s heart giving her the soothing solace of the monsoon. Mae Phosop thought of the refrain of a song popular when she was a young women being courted by her husband…”pen gamlang jai hai, pen gamlang jai hai, I will always be there for you.” Quietly she hummed these words of encouragement as she put her son’s letter away in her purse. While sons may fail, may disappoint, the monsoon is ever true. Rain brings rice. Rice brings life to the people. Slowly the aching of her heart began to ease. At last, she swallowed without pain. The rain had stopped and it was time for her to sell the kanom khaodom mad she had prepared in the morning before the arrival of Jit’s letter. Rising with effort, she gathered together the small packets and placed them in a wicker basket attached over the rear wheel of her bicycle. If I hurry, she thought, I’ll just make it to school in time to sell my sweets to the children before they depart for home. They’re sure to want sweets after a lunch of plain white rice and baked fish. With a deft flick of her hand, she opened the front gate of her house and pushed her carefully balanced bicycle onto the muddy track.