"When Padong made me go back to Chiang Rai as a child,

Yesterday, I ate egg porridge and a simple pat, but I thought of "Grandma" as I got older, and I began to understand the feeling of being separated from a benefactor, a loved one, a nostalgia that gradually grew as people grew older.

After my mother died when I was ten years old, my life moved from Mae Sai to her grandmother in Chiang Rai, even though it was the same province, but I remember that the social and cultural differences were so obvious: the colloquial language, the urban atmosphere, the suburbanity, and the individualism of the Chiang Rai people that a child felt without an explanation.

I've been a dessert vendor all my life. Boiled dessert, boiled rice, candle dessert, wet, red sticky rice, alternating each day in the bazaar. At five o'clock in the morning, I had to reach the stall, ready to sell. Like life programmed like that from childhood. My breakfast is very simple. A glass of unsweetened tofu juice with two pickles. Eat like a life clock that never distorts.

I grew up at the price of eating at that age. Tofu juice and papong combined for 4-5 baht. Chinese bread, 7 baht per bowl, 10 baht per bowl of clear water noodles. Around grade 5-grade 6, I would cycle to my grandmother at the market before school, find something to eat in the morning, look for something easy to eat. Most of them are hot fried potatoes for children.

The morning market and the school are less than two hundred meters apart. My roommate, Ben, likes to buy more snacks without asking and asking feedback. I said, "Are all my friends eating and giving a lot?" For Grandma, a 10-year-old is not interesting in this kind of antique dessert. After the market attack, at about nine o'clock, the merchant will start to trade the rest of the food with another store. It's a quiet exchange system, like a remnant of the era when people really exchanged things. I can also think that during the 5th reign, the neighborhood spent money. Indian rupees through the British-Burmese trade network. Maybe the exchange of small things in the market is a remnant of that way of thinking.

I was born in 1929, 10 years before World War II, and if I were alive, I would turn 96 when I was a kid, and I asked her to tell me about the world war before bed, about how she and her brother had to run down the bunker in the middle of the night when I heard a whirl, and even repeated things, I could listen every night without getting bored.

The Japanese soldiers who set up a base in that area, I said that they were friendly, hospitable, taught children to knit shoes from grass or straw, and taught them enough language to communicate. In the end, I didn't remember a word when I asked them to speak. I also told you (I don't know, not true) that the Japanese soldiers didn't eat yolk because they symbolized the Japanese flag and didn't eat pork skin, which became a good thing for the city because they were fried into pork cracks to sell.

When it comes to Grandma's past, it's connected to the change of the name of the country from Siam to Thailand, the proclamation of the state of politics, and the influx of efforts to create the same Thais. The people of Chiang Rai have to adapt a lot of things, dress, greeting, language, and I tell you that sometimes my grandfather (Grandma's brother) has to wear a guava hat when he goes to Siang, or wonder if he can dress up his navel pants. Even a greeting like "Hello" is not something that the people of Grandma used.

I often call the Central people "the South," and I often joke that the South, in my sense, has a completely different life, trajectory and temperament to the North.

All I tell you is like a historical work that has never been recorded, a way in which ordinary people face and interpret global events, wars, nation-states, economic transitions, and it reminds me of my side of my eyes that migrated from Goa (probably in Shan State), a group of kidneys, kidneys, or groups before settling in Chiang Rai, and growing up, and unfortunately, no one is asking now.

For me, maybe a simple food like a pair of pies is like a switch that causes the childhood world to reopen, reminding me of my grandmother waking up at five o'clock, working never stopped, thinking about my friend buying granny candy, thinking about the wartime voice.

And think of an older generation of adult love that doesn't speak out directly but gradually understands itself as it grows up.

I always think of all the benefactors who have left this world and think of all the questions that were not asked on the day of the opportunity to ask.