On the mrt.
The expression was such a powerful force of energy. Her happiness was plain on her face, and in her nimble hands; fingers working a soft sheet -now rolled, now thin spindles. To look at her was to plug in to a common field of shared joy. I was reeled in. Her face was an even fawn canvas and her lips a slight curve in a happy half-smile. It seemed wonder and glee was spirited through her very body and away touching very slightly then escaping the solid boundaries of her mouth, lighting the air around her in a soft electric glow.
There was no singular way of observing her countenance. What was animated was gently infused, and held steady in her private reverie. Smooth brows, lifted lids, confident nose, and a mouth made to always smile.
There was no pout in her posture. Her tan leather bracelets and sandals claimed freedom more than fashion. Her red bag fit a simple sagged form on her lap which sat ordinarily under a skirt of yellow and orange. An old scab on her left knee, the only punctuation on legs that looked used to activity. A thin band around her elfin hair betrayed hippie inclinations. But therein the word ‘betrayal’ reveals the wonder: she simply was. And to chance upon her unwritten thoughts was to share in the same rapture.
This is different from the delight a young child might find himself in. She had consciousness, and a tumultuous age. She was aware of the world, but stayed instead within with the light.
And yes I did wonder, just once, the reason for her joy. A romantic date? But she was sat clean and upright, not slumped in the sensual aftermath of romance. A comic moment? But her expression was placidly bright, not mired in the fast tangles of witticisms. It doesn’t matter. She’d sat, and was.