A Walk Down Sukhumvit
The things we miss.
Not long ago I took a 7-kilometer stroll down Sukhumvit Road. To relieve my ears of the high-pitch sounds of whizzing motorbikes and my mouth the powdery taste of black clouds of diesel smoke, I cut into a park and decided to rest my feet.
From a bench, I watched a girl no older than five interact with the playground the only way a child knows how – wild and free and desiring her father’s attention.
“Look at me, dad,” she said, as her legs struggled to generated enough momentum to move the swing. “Look at me.”
But her father never looked.
“Weeeeeee,” down the slide she went. “Look at me, dad.”
But her father never looked.
“Up here, dad,” she yelled from the top of the playground. “Look at me.”
But again her father never looked.
I felt a pinch in my chest. The pinch turned into a tug. The tug turned into a inner monologue of explosive anger.
My first thought was to get off the bench, walk over, grab the man, and shake him until his eyeballs rolled out of his face. I wanted to snatch the phone from his hands, smash it to bits on the ground, take the remaining pieces, and throw it into the pond.
Having two daughters who were twice his kid’s age, I wanted to tell the man that this fleeting moment would never return. I wanted to tell him that his daughter would soon grow out of her innocence. I wanted tell him that there’d come a point where he would no longer be her hero. She’d chase other people’s attention, not just yours.
But I remained silent. I took no action. He’ll get it one day, I thought, when he’s sitting on a bench watching some other father’s daughter yell out, “Look at me, dad.” But by that point, it’ll be too late. Just as it was for me.