Dear Chittima

 

I am sorry that I have not seen you in thirty years and sorrier still that I will no longer have the chance. I write this on the off-chance that you get internet in the Buddhist afterlife. Surely you must be in business class for your warm heart. I cannot imagine collecting all things Snoopy would count as a demerit. Perhaps, like the microscopic nematodes you studied in Amakusa where we first met as fellow foreign students at the marine station, you will carry on unseen yet everywhere. I remember your tiny Thai figure bundled in Snoopy sweaters against what you considered cold, spurting Tabasco sauce like ketchup on your dinner at Ban restaurant. I remember your mother giving food to passing monks from your home in Thailand early in the morning, and having perfumed mud smeared on us during that mad water festival. I remember your kind spirit. Farewell, my friend.