Mrs. Somsri reached out and touched Fern’s cheek. Her fingers were dry and warm. “Because you’re here,” she said. “With me. An old woman who doesn’t remember her own name. And you’re not afraid of the mess. Of the smell. Of me.”
Monday came hot and gray. Mrs. Somsri lived in a narrow house on a soi that flooded when it rained. Fern arrived at 5 p.m. with a bag of supplies: gloves, a blood pressure cuff, a notebook. The daughter, a tired woman named Goy, met her at the door.
Three months passed. Fern learned Mrs. Somsri’s rhythms: the good hours after breakfast, the sundown confusion, the way she would suddenly recite poetry in a clear, sharp voice before sinking back into silence. Fern learned to redirect, to soothe, to clean without shame.
Born in a small town in Thailand, Fern grew up with a sense of disconnection from her body. As a young boy, she felt like she was living in a body that didn't belong to her, and she struggled to reconcile her masculine exterior with her feminine identity. Despite the societal pressures and expectations placed upon her, Fern knew from a young age that she was meant to be a woman.