The Never-Ending Notebook: Book of Books

White Carnation

One. Eich. Yi.

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"Ma'am, I am sorry but she seems to be fi-."

"I don't care what you think. You are not listening, Doctor. I have had enough. She is not fine! She sits and plays by herself. She discusses-discusses!-things about Love, Loneliness, Death and the Past! Things children- Children!-shouldn't worry about-no- not even think! Perhaps I am wrong because I don't have two little letters in front of my name and a shiny plaque, but you tell me, no lies, that she is normal! She should be playing like all the other kids at the park and primary! For heaven's sake, she is four! Four, Doctor. And she acts like she is twenty-seven! And you tell me she is FINE!"

"Ma'am, I-I understand but she is, she is, a miracle! She shouldn't exist, considering!"

"CONSIDERING! Nǐ yǐwéi nǐ shì shuí!* Good Sir! I have had it! Good day!"

(*Who do you think you are!)

The woman stormed out of the white door that did an insufficient job at muting the quarrel. She huffed, paused, and then slumped in the nearest armchair. Her tear-dropped eyes perhaps mirrored the salty, drying, trail down to her tired and ivory cheek. Her small and round face rolled towards her chest, she sniffed, she clenched her jaw, her drying trail started to glisten once more. She watched the child in the corner, who is watching the combed clouds of the pale blue sky.

The child, háizi, looked up and at the curious woman with her baby cheeks and deep eyes. Her buns shifted as she tilted her fat face. The women's pupils flash, sharp, she raises her head, straightens her posture, clears all of her sadness in one deep exhalation.

She did not run away from criticism.

She did not cower from complications.

For she was a

Mother.

And Mothers did not run,

they fought.

For who?

Their children.

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My first memory of my Mother was one I never forgot.

That day, my Mother refused to think of me as normal. Perhaps the idea of my Mother fighting for me to be abnormal is something I should agonize over but, worry and woe are of no use to me.

My Mother deduced I was/am a 'Late Bloomer.' Coincidentally, my name's combined meaning is 'a thousand flowers.' When Mother came home with her stern face inline with crows feet Father's smile lines danced with the oxymoron.

Chi-Sa-Ki.

Father called it Fate. I call it coincident.

Fate. Whatever that is.

It seems that in America they love that word. Father always loved America even when they never met.

Fate.

Destiny.

Love.

Luck.

Who is to say they exist?

Who is to say that anything truly exists at all?

Who is to say that is not a coincidence?

Perhaps I use to. Not now.