One icy night in late-December 1983 was made special because of a brief encounter with a slim Korean girl of about 8 or 9. She seemed oblivious to Siberian cold that had me wishing I was back in Saudi Arabia.
Her apple cheeks glowed like the brake lights of passing cars. Like the rest of us, she scanned the numbers of buses as they arrived, took on a few cold Koreans, then rumbled off. Yet only she was smiling at that frigid bus stop.
It must've been a Saturday because I recall she was jumping around happily—as though she'd just finished classes (six days weekly in Confucian Asia) and Sunday was hers. At first I thought it was the frozen-Chosin cold that had her awaiting a bus with such obvious anticipation. Yet her cloth coat was unbuttoned and her face wasn't wrapped in a wool neck scarf, as was the mug of this observer.
Her spunk went into overdrive when she spotted the bus number she was awaiting among a half dozen rumbling toward us amid a cloud of exhaust fumes. When her bus pulled up to the curb behind several others, she scurried not to its front door to board, but to the side door where she posted herself like a palace gate-guard.
As the door accordioned open, I watched the red tip of a white cane touch both steps as its owner stepped onto the curb.
Apple Cheeks grabbed his free hand and was immediately gushing with the love of a child happy to see her father. Although he couldn't see her, the smile on his face at hearing her voice and feeling her hand in his required no translation. Her school week and his work week were done. They were together again and soon they'd be in their warm home with Mom and the rest of the family. Apple Cheeks was bursting to tell Dad of her day and how good it'd be to get home to Mom. Dad smiled as his daughter glowed.
Christmas cards should look so good. Numb from head to toes and bound for an empty bachelor's flat, I watched with envy.
