A Fantastical Place I Yearn to Explore | Cup of Jo

While I can’t recall the precise layout of the trailer my family occupied upon our arrival in the United States, nor the view from my first solo apartment, I can vividly evoke the exhilarating rush of the river in Verghese’s Covenant of Water. An enchanted forest in a fateful realm, marked by the footprints of a conversing faun. A cozy, gabled home in Prince Edward Island that carries the scent of apples during autumn and tiger lilies in peak spring. The wild moors of 19th-century England, where the tormented spirit of Cathy Earnshaw rages, like an unforgiving gale.

Have you wandered through those realms? Where does your dreaming mind take you?

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<pThe moment I first discovered that I could embark on this kind of journey must have been around eight or nine years old. My daughter has reached that age now, prompting it to resurface in my thoughts. It seems to me that this is when we begin to engage in reading not just with our eyes, but with our entire being. A startling passage makes us gasp; one of beauty invokes a sigh. Laughter bursts forth unexpectedly. Books start to manifest as real.

I would often nestle in my grandparents’ overgrown yard on a swinging bench, where an elderly tortoise ambled and pigeons cooed within a metal cage. My grandfather knelt amidst the earth, nurturing the cherry tree seeds that would take years to bear fruit. His glasses perched low on his nose; pink scrapes adorned his arms. In my imagination, he was a tall figure with an enormous shadow, yet in actuality, he barely stood at 5’3″.

“Where are you off to today?” he’d inquire. A weary, rugged tortoise would crawl through the weeds. In the sweltering Florida sun, we could linger in the garden for hours, enveloped in the tranquility of a companionship that asked nothing of each other.

Treasure Island, I would respond. Or Wayside School. A Little House on the Prairie.

My grandfather never delved into any of my books — his English reading was limited — yet he was always present with me. He took me not to fictional realms, but to the nostalgic locales that felt, perhaps, as far away as Narnia.

He shared tales of the fishing village of his childhood, where he was an orphan and later a youthful soldier, where palms grew invitingly for young climbers, and shiny basa fish flopped onto the banks. He painted pictures of the floating villages in Can Tho, where colorful boats leaned against one another like a myriad of vibrant leaves. Someday, he promised he would unveil the world to me.

Years later, I explored many of those places he meticulously described — indeed, with him, during a journey across Việt Nam. We dashed through the alleyways of Ho Chi Minh City, looking for a hidden hủ tiếu stall he longed to try. We clutched our seats during a nerve-wracking cable car journey over the lush mountains of Đà Lạt. At my childhood residence, he introduced me to his first garden, where I once delighted in sitting on his shoulders like a little sovereign, surveying the realm that seemed eternally ours. Now, in retrospect, that expedition has taken on a curious mythology, shaped by the tangible sites I encountered, as well as my grandfather’s memories, which were never genuinely mine yet felt as though they belonged to me.

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I wouldn’t be a writer today without him. A devoted collector of treasures from garage sales, he rose early on Saturdays to scout the neighborhood for great finds. He often returned home with boxes of books he thought might interest me and, on one occasion, he presented me with an old, clunky Word processor. It was his way of encouraging me to craft my own tales. With every clack of the keys, I found myself whisked away to realms only I could venture into. I soared far and wide, knowing that, just a room away, he would patiently await my return.

My grandfather has now departed to a place that eludes me. When I envision him, he is eternally in a garden. He halts and gazes back. He gestures for me to join him. There’s still so much to explore, his presence seems to communicate. Yet, the vision trembles and dissipates, and I cannot follow him after all. What remains is longing; overwhelming and exquisite and, in some way, life-affirming.

During the pandemic, distanced from the people and places I cherished, I penned a romance novel that illustrated the cities I had explored with my grandfather, as well as those I dreamt of experiencing with my own child in the future.

As I wrote my book, my greatest desire was to return to that moment in time with my grandfather and establish my own landmark within the map of my imagination. There, the terrain would be abundant, the afternoons long and brimming with adventure, and the happily-ever-after guaranteed. The finest kinds of places — whether real or imagined — can cradle our most cherished stories, alongside all that we yearn for.

Thao Thai is a writer and editor based in Ohio, and her latest romance novel, Adam & Evie’s Matchmaking Tour, was just released this September. She has contributed to Cup of Jo on topics such as motherhood, absent fathers, physical affection, and her year of selfies. A winner of the 2024 Ohio Arts Council’s Individual Excellence Award, Thao also penned the novel Banyan Moon (June 2023). You can follow her on Instagram or subscribe to her newsletter, should you wish.

P.S. The life principle Joanna discovered at her grandmother’s funeral, paired with a darkly amusing book we adored.

(Photo by Pansfun Images/Stocksy.)