She is part of a painting, perhaps. Behind her is a wall painted in pastel blue and yellow over an uneven surface of plaster. The lamp above her shines down on her, casting small shadows from her eyebrows, making her eyes even more mysterious. The Japanese part of her is evident in her light caramel complexion, her small nose, and her small eyes. The subtle, thin wrinkles around her eyes give away not only an approximate age but also her Asian lineage. But her gesture, her smile, the way she looks at the person talking to her, all point to her European side. So there, if you frame a rectangle around her, centering her, with that background of pastel colors, you see a portrait of a woman listening, thinking, and her next words slowly being formulated in her mind just now. The spark in her eyes inside the shadows cast by her eyebrows add to the mystery and beauty that she already carries without the drama shone by the light or helped by the colorfulness and quaintness of this cafe where we are all having dinner.
She, sitting on my right, is listening to the man on my left talking about his dream of making a documentary about music in the Caribbeans. She, being an artist herself, listens attentively, and the subtle smile drawn by the lines on her cheeks gives the speak the confidence that his story is being given due attention. Whenever he pauses, she has an interesting remark to make or an apt question to pose. The man is obviously still very nervous because the volume of his voice goes up and down, his breathing has a tinge of struggle, and he isn't able to hold her gaze for long. Whereas the only time she doesn't look at him is to look at me, to include me in the conversation, though I don't say anything, just pay attention to whoever is talking at the moment.
She is about the same age when my Mother came to this country. They are two very different women, of course. The portrait in front of me isn't married, doesn't seem like the type that has or will ever get married. She is only half Asian. She has been to all over the world. She is an artist, lacking that super pragmatism that drives my Mother. But in her eyes, in the warmth of her subtle smile, in the similar tone of her skin, the similar color of her eyes, I see the youth of my Mother that I never, as a child, discerned and now I have missed the chance. A woman in her mid thirties still harbors a lot of hope, regardless of background. For me, my Mother has lost all hope. Her preoccupation, in fact, seems to be driving hope from other people. But now, here, in front of me, a face that suddenly seems to familiar.
Or perhaps, it has features I have always unknowingly yearned to be in the sullen face of my Mother. I have never sat so close to a woman of some Asian background of this age. I never wanted, or dared, to look at the face of such women. There had always been some fear I'd find something, but tonight, without even the aid of alcohol, I mustered the courage to be close to this beautiful face. And in her face, her expressions, her lines of smiles, I find a strange, unfamiliar sense of safety, comfort. I feel like a step is taken in my road towards a goal I have yet to name.
