The phone was ringing,
and I could hear your voice saying,
“Girl, your dad will go fishing with his friends next week.
They asked him yesterday, ‘Will your little daughter join us? Just like before — she was good at fishing.’
Your dad laughed and said, ‘I don’t have a little daughter anymore.’
It was years ago, Girl. It seems like old people, like me, are trapped in the past. We struggle to erase beautiful old memories, yet easily forget what we just did. I think it’s because we know time is flying, so we refuse to simply let it go.
So your dad told them, ‘My girl hasn’t gone fishing since the last time we did. She’s studying now, miles away.’”
“I’m 22 now,” I said.
“Sure, you’re 22, Girl.”
And then, silence…
“Mom, I keep remembering the time when Piyokta sat on the back of my bicycle, holding my red-and-white uniform tightly. Those days — when she was only a first grader. It was the dry season. I can still feel the warmth of her hands, the smell of her baby powder, and the fog passing across our faces. She’s taller than me now. It’s a little funny.”
My mother said, “I still remember the mornings when I had to cook early, angrily telling you all to eat breakfast. But the three of you always said, ‘We’re going to be late!’ That wasn’t my fault — you three should’ve woken up earlier. Still, I happily watched you go to school: Piyokta in her red-and-white uniform, you in your white-and-navy blue, and your older sister in her white-and-gray. The three of you rode your bicycles to school together.”
“I’m 22 now…”