Seven years ago, at a Thai restaurant, there was a man and a girl sitting at the table across from me. The man was most certainly the girl's father, seeing as there was an uncanny resemblance. But what caught my attention were the man's eyes. He had such a strange look in his eyes, a deep sadness, the look of a man who was bruised from years of being beaten by the fists of life. However, buried in the eyes was a quiet resilience. I had the impression that this was a man who was once in love with life, and even though this love had been diminished and cracked and torn, it was still there, like a tattered piece of cloth.
It was love, though that took central stage in the theater of his eyes. It was love for the girl, his daughter, I assumed. I knew then, just from the way he looked at her that some tragedy had occurred, and that she was a pearl in an ocean of miasma that he swam through.
What also struck me were their clothes. The man was wearing worn clothes, the type that a homeless man might wear. The girl wore a faerie costume, and I had the impression that he had splurged to buy it for her. A stranger to the wounds of life, the girl's eyes sparked merrily.
It was strange, but the moment I saw them I almost instantly felt as though I had known these two all my life. I could tell their whole story. The man was a kind and loving father, and the girl was your usual child, full of joy and innocence that had not been ripped and torn by life. I knew that they were poor, and I knew that something awful had occurred in the past few years.
I never spoke a single word to them, and they none to me, and yet I felt that I knew everything about them. I began to imagine what their life was like.
I pictured them coming home at night, and the man tucking the girl in. He would say good night, but he would not say those exact words. Instead, he would call her a name, or say some sort of inside joke. I pictured the girl saying goodnight back, and her holding a stuffed animal, perhaps a stuffed giraffe. I saw in my mind, clear as day or night, the girl telling the man that he forgot to say goodnight to the stuffed giraffe named, shall we say, Walley. The man would smile and say “Goodnight Walley,” and then he would leave the room, turn off the light, and close the door.
He wouldn’t go to bed right after that. A strange sense of grief would wash over him. He would remember old times, and moments long since wilted like a flower, like the flowers sitting on a vase on the window sill. He wouldn’t know why he was remembering them, at that particular moment, but they would circle him like drunken fireflies around a strobe light, Some of them would be pleasant, some sad. Then after a while, he would get up and wash the dishes. Eventually, he would go to bed. I imagined all of that, clear as saran wrap.
At some point they got up and walked out. I never saw them again. They probably never saw me at all, and if one of them did they probably would not think much. They will never know how their presence struck me in such an unfathomable way. They will never know that years later I still recall their faces, and the look in the man's eyes. People say that the eyes are a window to the soul, and I never understood that until the day that I saw them. It was like I had just passed by and caught a glimpse of some primordial essence of their being. We were strangers, crossing paths in a Thai restaurant, and yet I felt that I understood both of them completely, or at the very least as much as you can understand a human being.
It is strange that, despite everything, we still expect the world to make sense. We expect that sad things happen when it’s raining, and that scary things happen in the dark, and that happiness always grows on sunny days during the summer.
The truth is, we can never even begin to understand ourselves, much less the world, and yet the image of the man and the girl at the Thai restaurant is still implanted firmly in my mind. It is like a picture, decorating the walls of my brain.
I do not know why it stays with me. Perhaps I am crazy. Perhaps I have simply been lovesick for human connection and lovestruck for the world, that beautiful yet cruel kaleidoscope. Perhaps it is my love-hate relationship with humanity.
I’ll probably never know why my mind chooses to do what it does, but I am still thankful that the memory sticks with me. The strangeness of this world is something that I am forever grateful for.
It was love, though that took central stage in the theater of his eyes. It was love for the girl, his daughter, I assumed. I knew then, just from the way he looked at her that some tragedy had occurred, and that she was a pearl in an ocean of miasma that he swam through.
What also struck me were their clothes. The man was wearing worn clothes, the type that a homeless man might wear. The girl wore a faerie costume, and I had the impression that he had splurged to buy it for her. A stranger to the wounds of life, the girl's eyes sparked merrily.
It was strange, but the moment I saw them I almost instantly felt as though I had known these two all my life. I could tell their whole story. The man was a kind and loving father, and the girl was your usual child, full of joy and innocence that had not been ripped and torn by life. I knew that they were poor, and I knew that something awful had occurred in the past few years.
I never spoke a single word to them, and they none to me, and yet I felt that I knew everything about them. I began to imagine what their life was like.
I pictured them coming home at night, and the man tucking the girl in. He would say good night, but he would not say those exact words. Instead, he would call her a name, or say some sort of inside joke. I pictured the girl saying goodnight back, and her holding a stuffed animal, perhaps a stuffed giraffe. I saw in my mind, clear as day or night, the girl telling the man that he forgot to say goodnight to the stuffed giraffe named, shall we say, Walley. The man would smile and say “Goodnight Walley,” and then he would leave the room, turn off the light, and close the door.
He wouldn’t go to bed right after that. A strange sense of grief would wash over him. He would remember old times, and moments long since wilted like a flower, like the flowers sitting on a vase on the window sill. He wouldn’t know why he was remembering them, at that particular moment, but they would circle him like drunken fireflies around a strobe light, Some of them would be pleasant, some sad. Then after a while, he would get up and wash the dishes. Eventually, he would go to bed. I imagined all of that, clear as saran wrap.
At some point they got up and walked out. I never saw them again. They probably never saw me at all, and if one of them did they probably would not think much. They will never know how their presence struck me in such an unfathomable way. They will never know that years later I still recall their faces, and the look in the man's eyes. People say that the eyes are a window to the soul, and I never understood that until the day that I saw them. It was like I had just passed by and caught a glimpse of some primordial essence of their being. We were strangers, crossing paths in a Thai restaurant, and yet I felt that I understood both of them completely, or at the very least as much as you can understand a human being.
It is strange that, despite everything, we still expect the world to make sense. We expect that sad things happen when it’s raining, and that scary things happen in the dark, and that happiness always grows on sunny days during the summer.
The truth is, we can never even begin to understand ourselves, much less the world, and yet the image of the man and the girl at the Thai restaurant is still implanted firmly in my mind. It is like a picture, decorating the walls of my brain.
I do not know why it stays with me. Perhaps I am crazy. Perhaps I have simply been lovesick for human connection and lovestruck for the world, that beautiful yet cruel kaleidoscope. Perhaps it is my love-hate relationship with humanity.
I’ll probably never know why my mind chooses to do what it does, but I am still thankful that the memory sticks with me. The strangeness of this world is something that I am forever grateful for.
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