moderatelyExcessive

Srey Mom has been standing a few feet away from me, bawling as she stands guard over your suitcase, and your coffee pot, and your cd player.

The monks have already come and gone — the ceremony for your passing lasting most of the morning. Perhaps you know this. Perhaps you don’t. That’s the big mystery, isn’t it?

I’m glad to have met you this past week. For once it was nice to speak with someone who didn’t come to Cambodia to find the youngest woman, or the one with the most-well connected family, or to find an ever-changing cast of taxi girls. You spent your time and your money on Srey Mom, who, at 37, has one of the most heart-breaking life stories I have ever heard. For that I respect you much.

You told me just yesterday morning that you were very ill. I didn’t know how to respond then, and less than twelve hours later, you were gone.

And now, Srey Mom is standing alone, chest heaving, inconsolable.

You are missed. Farewell, buddy.