“Show me.”
I did.
“See, it’s held vertically with the thumb and the middle finger. My mother told me you should be able to put an egg in your palm if you’re holding it correctly.”
He laughed and then tried it. I adjusted his fingers so that his ring finger and pinkie touched the bottom of the brush handle.
“This is hard,” he said. “Must take a lot of practice.”
“Yes. You start by practicing the Chinese character yong to master the eight basic strokes.”
“And what does yong mean?”
“Forever,” I said.
“Now, what does the one you’re working on represent?”
“It means mother,” I said.
“I know you must really miss her.”
“Yes.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on my calligraphy. “Well,” he said, “your art teacher should be happily surprised once he learns what you can do. He’ll probably have you teach the class.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” I said.
“Sure you could. Let me see this when it’s finished,” he told me, and started to turn to leave. He stopped, and I looked at the doorway.
Kiera was standing there. From the look on her face, I knew she must have been there for a while and heard what we had been saying.
“What’s up?” he asked her.
“Nothing,” she said sharply, and hurried away.
He hesitated, and then he walked out.
Not long before our accident, after Mama and I had spent most of our day on Venice Beach’s boardwalk selling her calligraphy and my lanyards, she had paused while we were getting our things together and just sat there staring at people.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” I had asked. “Are you feeling sick again?”
“No, no,” she had said. She’d smiled at me, and for a moment, I saw through her bloated face and tired eyes and saw the smile on her face years ago when she was beautiful and energetic. Nothing made me happier. I could go all the rest of the day without food and still feel content because I saw this smile.
“Then what, Mama?”
“I was just thinking how when they look at the calligraphy, they change.”
“Who changes?”
“The people, the ones who pass by. It isn’t until they’re looking at the calligraphy that they suddenly see us as people. They look at both of us then, Sasha. Did you notice that?”
Now that she had said it, I realized it was true, and I nodded.
“Why is that, Mama?”
“The calligraphy, like anything beautiful, reminds us all about what we share as people. That’s what your grandmother once told me,” she had said. “But it wasn’t until just now, today, that I realized what she meant.”
She had smiled again and then continued gathering her things.