Hourglass

The phone was ringing

And I could hear your voice, told me,

“Girl, your Dad will have a fishing with his friends next week.

So, they asked him yesterday,’will your little daughter join us? Just like before. She was good at fishing.

Your Dad laughed,’I didn’t have little daughter anymore.’

It was years ago, Girl. Seems like old people, like me, trapped in the moment. We get difficulties on erasing some beautiful-old memories, but easily forget what we have just done. I think that because we all know, time is flying, so we reject to just let it go away.

So your Dad told them,’My Girl hasn’t been fishing since the last time we have, she’s studying now, miles away.’”

“I am 22 now,” I said

“Sure, you’re 22, Girl.”

And then silent…

“Mom, I keep remembering the time when Piyokta sat on the back side of my bicycle, holding my red-white uniform tightly. Those old-days, when she was only a 1^st grade students of elementary school. It was dry season. I can still feel the warm of her hands, the smell of her baby powder, the fog that passed by on our faces. She is taller than me now. It’s a little bit funny.”

“I still remember the days I had to cook early in the morning, angrily saying you guys had to have a breakfast, but the three of you always answered, ‘we are going to be late’. That was not my fault, you three should wake up earlier. And I would happily watching you guys went to school; Piyokta with her red-white uniform, then you, in your white-navy blue, and the last was your older sister in white grey uniform. The three of you went to school together by bicycle.”

“I am 22 now…”