The yellowed letter crumbled itself in my hands. The wet tears created inked blotches of a cruel watercolor painting that brought forth loneliness common for refugees like me. My body softly swayed with the bus suddenly braked, I looked up and there was nobody around me. My breath fogged up the window, blurring away the gray image of raindrops racing down and multi-floored buildings. My work bag slid down the bus floor but I absentmindedly watched it run away from me. The contents of this letter, so sacred that I cannot say it out loud, was the last thing my mother wrote to me before I ever heard from her again.
While clutching the letter in my hand, I pulled down the string at my destined stop to return home. The lone street lamp stood so tall by itself like the last tree waiting to be cut in a deforested area. I adjusted my tie and collar and nod to the bus driver as if I wasn’t shameless enough to be so vulnerable by myself at the back of the bus. Down the steps, what greeted me was warm humid air.
The bus behind me disappeared, and emerging out of the banana trees a bright green bird fluttered. The dirt roads, the exotic plantations that surrounded me, the birds cawing, the signs in a foreign language, to the house of my childhood. Something fluttered in my stomach like a little bird, and my knees give in. On the ground, I rapidly focused on every other thing I see. This looked exactly like home.
“Buntheng! Buntheng lunch is ready!” The familiar voice called for my name, I pat for my pocket where I stuffed the letter. On the dirt ground the wrinkles of my face fold over once again from my wide grin like folding freshly ironed clothing. My mother stopped yelling my name but the birds continued chirping and the trees continued swaying. I get up on my feet and followed the dirt path past my home. My true home. Beyond the dirt path, there were even more plantations of different kinds of fruits, from dragonfruit to durian. Over my head, for once no clouds or airplanes are wafting by. Orange dirt clouded my leather shoes but who cared? Down the nostalgic path that belonged to my home, I absorbed the scenery like a sponge. My heart, buttery and smooth, tears roll down streams that are carved onto my cheeks. It felt real, vivid, as if I was stuck in a lucid dream.
The path becomes narrower and eventually becomes stone then concrete. From looking all around I suddenly confronted the present. At the end of the trail lie a lone street lamp, standing resiliently against the pouring rain. A thunderous roar deafened my ears, my stomach gnawed into itself. This is where it ends. I glanced at my childhood home, a little distance away. I could run back home, into my mother’s arms if I wanted to. Or I could return to the present, where I go to sleep and then repeat the same day over; work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep. A choice, to bitterly leave the utopia called Childhood. Where innocence slowly crawls away from you but it’s too late when you realize. A choice, to return back to the present, alone. The leaves around me rustled, whispering for me to stay. But the roar of the thunder demanded me to return.
My breath caught in the wind, I detoured off the path. Ducking under branches like a familiar local, a tranquil pond waited for me. Exactly how it looked like the day we had to leave home. The water was still, until one day it rippled and shook from enemy jets flying over. I leaned against a banana tree, fixated on the pond while fidgeting with the buckle of my work bag. Inside the bag contained red, white, and blue freedom. An American eagle etched onto a stitched passport, an ID to permit my entrance into the tall office, but missing was a lost photograph of my family. On it had smiling faces, unknowing that a war would come to destroy our lives. In the present not only did an ocean separate us but a void of not knowing if each other were alive or not dug the graves of my family. I crawled to the pond.
In my reflection, a boy stared back at me. His face dirty, his teeth rotting and missing, his cheeks sunken and clothes torn. I didn’t know who it was. I raised one arm and he too raised it, a shackle jingled, nearly startling me. I touched my wrist, obviously seeing that nothing is shackling me down but that’s not what the tranquil pond reflected. The hand touching my restrained wrist had a crisp cuffed sleeve. Again, I drew back both of my hands, solemnly returning them back to my side. I touched my cheeks that were once full but my hand goes through my face. Terrified I tried to grab my cheek, something or anything to assure me that I won’t look like this strange reflection. Abruptly, I felt like a scared little boy again. A boy who once smiled, a boy who once thought that everything would be okay. Inside me, a storm brewed. Two winds pushing against one another. Unsure of which side would win me over. I looked down at my reflection in the tranquil pond and touched my face. This is what the result of a red, white, and blue regime looks like. If I chose to stay here, my relaxed days would be limited before we all die of a tragic death. With a gulp, I pushed down all the hesitation I had inside.
Standing up and dusting off my pants, I dropped my mother’s crinkled letter. Back to the dirt path, I look back and forth between the lone street lamp and my nostalgic childhood home. I returned to where my heart ached most.