Death on the Dance Floor

Ko Kret Island has around 6,000 people. That’s everyone — infants, teenagers, middle-aged folks, and wise oldies who seem to have outlived several Prime Ministers. The number doesn’t include the strays — dogs, cats, and the occasional snake or water monitor who think they pay rent here.

Most of the island’s people are elderly, so it’s not hard to guess when everyone gathers: Buddhist Holy Days, ordination ceremonies… and funerals.

Funeral…..that one word flips every emotion upside down. It’s the only event in the world you can attend without an official invitation — and in Thailand, showing up without one is somehow even classier. Death doesn’t mind surprise guests.

The whole country is mourning too, after the passing of Queen Sirikit — the mother of our King. She was everything we grew up admiring: elegant, graceful, effortlessly regal. She made “being Thai” feel beautiful. And in her own way, she taught us that kindness never goes out of style.

Living in Thailand, there are days when the entire nation breathes in together and exhales in silence.
Living on the island, there are moments when the river doesn’t move. Or maybe… it’s just pretending not to.

Grief is like that — quiet, patient, doing its thing while you’re still figuring out yours.

As I get older, I’ve made peace with death — or at least, I’m learning the steps. You realize death isn’t the end of life; it’s part of its choreography. It doesn’t cancel the song — it just fades into a different verse.

And for those of us still here — breathing, hustling, tripping over our own shoes — we keep dancing. Because the ones who left are still around somehow: in laughter, in memory, in the breeze that makes you turn your head for no reason.

If life is one big dance floor — where we learn, love, stumble, cry, and groove — then death doesn’t belong on the dance floor. It’s simply in the next room. The lights are dimmer, maybe we dance slower, but the song? Still playing.

Even  the best dance floors need moments of silence. But when the music returns, we move again — not to forget, but to remember differently.

And just like the river, it flows beyond what we can see. The current never stops — it just keeps going.

One day, we’ll follow the same current.
Softly.
Somewhere from the river.