November 11, 2020

My dearest,

You tell me you’ve spotted a sunbird. Not a hummingbird – there are none in Asia, you tell me – but a sunbird. Tiny, too. This one is all black, with a deep yellow breast, perched in the branches of the frangipani tree.

You’re up on the rooftop of your hotel. Your daily stretch and breath of fresh air. The sky is so much bluer in Bangkok, and cooler this time of year. It’s winter already, you tell me.

It’s warm and windy here, I tell you. Our home is quiet without you, bigger and smaller at the same time. We have our daily routines. We exercise, we brew our coffee, both of us using the same drippers and filter papers.

Today you’ve spotted another bird. A puku bird, you say. Later, a buku bird. You only know its Chinese name. You check online and tell me it’s probably a cuckoo. Like the pink neck green pigeons in our garden. Maybe a dove, you’re not sure.

It’s okay. So long as you get to enjoy your birdwatching there, the way I am learning to here. It’s my way of seeing what you see, my way of walking with you, side by side, with only a thousand miles between us and no distance at all.

Yours, ever and always.