The other day Cece and I went to the Refugee Festival held in downtown Tucson. We walked around, enjoyed the music and perused the handicrafts. It wasn't till I saw the group of African teenagers running a "kick the soccer ball through the hole" booth that I was struck with the pain of missing my boys in Thailand.
I choked up. They were identical to my boys in their love of futbol and in the way they held themselves; balanced on the edge of a peculiar "self"-confidence that is buoyed by the group, and an innocent fragility. I longed for a welcoming smile.
I imagined asking my boys in Bangkok what kind of booth they would like to run.
"You can do anything that you want, but you'll have to put down the money to create it." I'd say.
"Anything?" they'd query.
"Yup."
They definitely would not come up with the idea of a dunk tank or a stuff your face with food contest. Plain and simple, they would come up with a football game. It's something they know, love and requires very little investment.
I left with the bittersweet feeling that comes with loss and love. Oddly, I'm grateful that the fog of amnesia that's been rolling in as we begin a new life, an ocean away from the previous one, is not impenetrable.
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