As I came back from the museum few hours ago I saw the peaceful meadow of her yard. It’s ironic that land is dead beyond her house. Many people coveted the land behind her house for industrial uses, so over the years they built a baseball park, two shopping malls, and a supermarket. Those things polluted made the streams turbid and the air smoggy. But her house is just as crystal clear now as it was many years ago, when it lived and breathed without a speck of greyish dust. She lived alone ever since I could remember, so she would be the only cause for her uncleanliness, which is never the case because she has always kept the habit of cleaning her house everyday, even though she was too old and fragile at the end to go through the ordeal. The results of her efforts to clean up the house are clean walls, bookshelves, drawers, and shiny vases, which are delineated with firm, stylised Chinese calligraphy, or mountains and rivers from her beloved Guangdong, her home.

And she is an extraordinary woman. She is a grey-haired, strong-willed woman in her mid-seventies. She is short, almost a feet shorter than I am. Most people remember her as the most unique elderly in the neighbourhood, for she is too energetic, too jubilant for a woman of her age. Some people attribute her open-minded personality to her foreign education, which she obtained in England, and it seems to be a fruitful investment. She looks very healthy for a person of her age, and the combination of a young mind and a healthy body leads her to paint every day. Artist is the only job she’s ever adopted, and she’s a very good one. She is excruciatingly stringent when she works. Because her ideas often come too sporadically and too fast, she always has to ready a piece of chalk on her fingers every time she works, so she could outline whatever comes to her immediately. It is common for her to scrap two or three canvases before she finds a good idea. I often watch her going from researching her ideas to denial and frustration that she is not good enough to draw the idea she had, but somehow to an eventual and detached acceptance that this is all she can do right now. Her process of reaching perfection is only something I can appreciate but never understand from her works exhibited in museums or inserted as illustrations in books. As a child I often lament that I can never be a maestro like she is.

I walked past her house in the morning today, and found an empty canvas in the yard just like in the old days. The easel is angled slightly, so that the canvas always catches some light, whether it is from outdoors or from the house. She loves the angle of the easel very much. I went past it again few hours earlier, and it is as perfect as it was in the morning: it seemed less lustrous, no doubt due to the lack of sunshine. But when the moonlight shone on it, the easel suddenly boasted a hallowed look that I can’t quite describe. The way the easel latched onto light gave it a surreal impression, with shadows accentuating the mysteriousness it exuded. For the first time I understood why she always maintained that ideas are everywhere in nature. She loves to stay in the nature, and she adores the smell of trees, and the rawness of the reeds besides the little river about ten minutes away from her house. But in the last few years that river has been abandoned for too long, for it was heavily polluted by factories. That is the story of her life, really: she has lost too many beloved things, and that is just one of them.

Oh, and memories do hurt you, don’t they?

*
Too many years ago I used to see her in my house. She and my parents were close friends, which is funny because they didn’t always see eye to eye. In hindsight, I understand why they weren’t always on the best of terms, because any human has a limit, and hers was patience. She often got all worked up on in the days, particularly when she receives negative criticisms on her work. That was why she often wrote sonorous, blasphemous rebukes on newspapers and magazines. She had numerous fights with art museums over waiving partial rights on her work, and even more quarrels with philistine buyers who wanted to buy her work. She has a boisterous voice and she knows it. In those days she had bifurcate reputation, which she wouldn’t have salvaged if she hadn’t decided to leave us one day.

The reason was simple: she simply wanted to live like a recluse. She said after a night of thinking she wanted to leave her work for a while, not only because of her hatred towards many parts of the occupation, but also her love for her art. She wanted to see more of the world, not less of it. Since the ideas of her work are taken solely from nature, she didn’t see a single flaw in the plan. My parents wanted to stop her from committing a mistake, but they knew her too well, meaning they knew that her obstinacy is a part of her soul. And, as she said, unless I marry a girl at the age of nine (I was almost nine when she moved away), she’ll not change her mind. Soon after that decision she left entire life behind—including a house clearly labelled “not-for-sale”, and a mailbox with her new address somewhere in rural Taipei, somewhere three hours drive away from our neighbourhood.

Mrs. Xue is not another woman you’d see walking on the streets; she’s extraordinary.

Seven years later, on a fine autumn night when I was returning from school after I studied anxiously for the high school placement exam, I was her standing before her house, trying to find her keys. But the night was too dark, and the nearest street lights were out. I remember I first saw a frail figure by the door, which looked too suspicious to my juvenile eyes. So, I walked towards the surreptitious shadow. The closer I got the more jingling I heard, and at once I saw some rectangular pieces leant against the wall. But the figure wasn’t getting clearer in the meantime, and until I walked close enough to see her it was too late. I had already said,

“Hey there. Who are you?”

In retrospect this is the worst possible sentence starter. Mrs. Xue hated “hey” more than anything else; she believed good manners should always be the first priority, no matter who you are. She chided me, in partial darkness, and told me never to approach anyone in any way remotely similar to my failed introduction. Then I told her, earnestly, that she looked too different from the last time I saw her and I couldn’t recognise her for a minute. It is true: her hair was starting to turn deep grey, but imperceptible unless light is present. She looked older, which was par for the course, with wrinkles lighting up around the edges of her eyes, and scattered on her forehead. She seemed a little more muscular, and sportier; she started wearing hiking shoes and sneakers, and she went to gyms before she was too old to use the weights or the treadmill. Immediately, she then grinned at me in a way I can never forget: I saw her kindred spirit again, her young, fervid soul. She said she’s too happy to see me again, and so was I. So the next few hours we spent catching up with too many things that happened in the years. She came across as surprised at my spurting growth, and the deep vocals I have now. She asked me all sorts of things, like how my parents are doing, how healthy the local museum director is (the director’s name is Zane, a close friend of hers), and everything she cared about. The entire time I answered, and she listened so attentively that I was wondering if another soul’s in there: she used to interrupt me regularly, and admittedly I waited for her to stop me. I even gave a pause after each sentence, lest she wanted to say something. Finally, she caught onto my shuddering eyes and the uncomfortable tone in my sentences, and asked me what was wrong.

“You’ve changed too much. It’s frightening.” Immediately I wondered whether or not I should have been so candid in the first place. But I knew it was too late.

“Oh,” she started nonchalantly. “I guess mountains and rivers taught me too much, then.”

Delightfully evasive, I thought.

“Then may I ask you one thing?” I was sweating through my palms, fearing I would be chided for what I am about to ask. She said what was it, but that was too faint to my ears. She spoke so softly that I, again, asked myself if it was really her.

“Why did you decide to move back?”

“Oh,” she used the word again. She paused a little while before she continued. “The place is getting too distracting. The mountain is getting too dirty and too many tourists are always besides my place. I had to move. Besides, I’m too old to be there; I need to be at doctor’s every other month now. I have arthritis.”

She went on for half an hour before she finished her exciting trekking stories on the mountain, as well as vivid descriptions of her deteriorating health and how she felt the burden of ageing. But, for the most part, her account of her love life and friendships were too mundane. I still listened, and occasionally engaged with her, but I was getting tired since the day has tormented too much, and I couldn’t handle her dodging speech any longer. I guessed she just mentions those things so others won’t beat her to it. She’s too clever that way. But I thought since we were on the topic anyways I seized the opportunity to ask her if she met any lovers over there. Then she grew somewhat alarmed.

“A person’s life is not something you’d ask so easily,” she said. 

“Where’re your manners?”

“Sorry, auntie.” I call her auntie because she said we knew each other too well, sometimes she feels like I’m her niece. I’ve always thought I am too artistically lowbrow to be her niece, but she said it’s fine; I can call her by auntie, but no one else can. In fact, it is bizarre that she refuses to call anyone by their names, because she thought names are just a label. She hated names, which was ironic for an artist. All her artworks are published under “Mrs. Xue”. No one knows her full name in Chinese, let alone her English name. She is enigmatic that way.

Then she backed off at once. She didn’t pursue my lack of mannerisms any further, and instead offered me some drinks and buns. “You must be starving, yes?” I nodded and saw the time. It was quarter-to-midnight, and if mother and father weren’t away on business trips, I would’ve been at home and asleep by this time. Auntie came back with a platter of buns, as if it was already time for breakfast. She told me she made the buns herself, and that I was her first guinea pig. I took a bite and I said it was otherworldly. She was elated. Immediately I added,

“When did you learn how to make buns, Auntie?”

“Well, you’re bound to pick up some new skills as you grow older.

It’s nothing to be surprised about.”

“But I thought you were all against cooking.” She used to. She said it brings mess to the house and I agree. Mother cooks with lard and rice all the time, and the scene is always messy.
“No, not quite. Making buns is easy. Mix flour with water and wait for it to blow up like a balloon. You see, the art of cooking is patience—”

She lost me from there. The night churned slower and slower, until it ends with me falling asleep in her living room, after thinking why she mentioned patience. But everything is gone after a good, long sleep.

Since then too many years have gone by since, and changes on her are too obvious to anyone who knows her. She became willing to listen to others, and to understand what they are talking about. She dismissed people less, and talked about herself more. She said she’s trying to improve, and become a better person. She started cooking for herself instead of eating outside all the time. She learned how to make spring rolls, steamed buns, fried buns, and fried dumplings. She has been cooking frequently ever since, until she got too old to wake up early morning to make bread paste. By the same token she painted a lot less as she grew older, since her eyesight deteriorated too much and she can’t see all that well. Now, she only paints when she is at her best conditions, and when she has an idea that she loves—not when she has ideas that she thinks would work for a successful work. Such shift in mindset led her to explore more, not less, in her work. In recent years she limited her productivity to one or two paintings a year. She lost her prolificacy but gained more depth in her works, after she started to look at things through an old person’s eyes.

But that’s not the only change that has ever happened. Things have gradually taken turns to evolve. Mother and father are both gone. Mother went away first, on her birthday four years ago. She had severe stomach ulcer that lead internal haemorrhage, which she battled with for the last eight months of her life. Father went away about one-and-a-half years later, from heart attack. Things always come too suddenly, too fast, auntie told me, resignedly. So after both tragedies she took me away on trips, to alleviate the pain that comes with deaths of loved ones. It was aching every cell of my body, and it wasn’t until recently that I got over them entirely. And auntie is the person to thank: even though she is both airsick and seasick, she still took me to places I’ve never heard of before. We went to Maldives and Bali, where she told me she spent time in those places to cope with deaths of her love. She then told me how tragic her life was, when she was only several years younger than me. Her parents were rich until they were robbed and killed during the Cultural Revolution. She took every dollar she had and ran, from everyone she left behind. I asked her who they were, but she just said “family”. I still don’t know the whole answer to that today, but she helped me through the days of grief and denial when none of my relatives can. She gave me all I needed: ears to listen and understand me when I was delirious and lost, and a heart that repeatedly told to apprehend that everything is bound to be lost some day. To me, she was the only family I have left; she’s de facto family.

*

Monday. Two weeks ago. The morning was shining brilliantly, and it was, as per usual, extremely humid. Just another work day. I left for work as usual, at about half-eight, to the bus stop. It always comes promptly at twenty-to-nine, and such punctuality defines an archetypal Taipei bus driver. And, as I approached the stop I saw an unfamiliar figure at this time of day: auntie was sitting on a bench besides the bus stop, waiting for the same bus that I need to get on. She said she wanted to see where I work, and I didn’t think, for a second, to stop her; I knew she’d insist stubbornly. So, I thought since any rush hour bus is too dangerous, too overcrowded for a woman of her age, I took her to get a taxi ride instead. In the end she paid for the fare before I reached out to my wallet. She then said,

“You’re still the slugger you’ve always been, huh?”

I smiled at her and we bantered all the way to the office. She said I looked tired, and I said I worked on a part of the project (which I was managing) until one o’ clock before I slept. Caffeine was still burning holes in my organs, while insidiously plodding through every blood vessel in my body. We reached my office and I told her this is where I work. She made a quick remark about the workplace.

“So this is where you work. For an IT project manager you certainly aren’t valued much.”

She’s right. My office is a small storefront rented in the middle of the road, accompanied by some shady stores on the sides, and flanked by a narrow, insidiously miasmic alley. The office itself isn’t better by any means. My desk is barely half my arm span, and I am the manager; I can only pity the engineers and computer guys.

“Well, they say if you have responsibilities on a job, then you’d be damned for caring about where you work instead of thinking about how to race against time.” Then she laughed at me for some reason and patted my back so hard that I coughed. I asked her what was so funny.

“People my age uses ‘damned’. I thought people your age use either ‘f***’ or ‘bullshit’.”

“And you say all of that, don’t you?” I replied. She got the insult.

“Damn right.” I then took her into the office, and gave a tour around the exceedingly small place. The office workers found me extremely boring and tedious compared to the young and funny auntie. She and I spent the entire day together at the office. I had a busy day but I didn’t work much. I thought I still have plenty of time to finish the job, but auntie may only be in such good mood today. She had much fun with all my co-workers and that’s what’s important: she has seldom enjoyed herself lately, so the least she could do is to swagger up like old times. She’s too mild and mellow; and old.

At about half-five I took her home. She’s still energetic, and we talked too much about the nature of my work and most of my adolescence today. She missed some of my adolescent years and she said that’s one of the worst things she’s ever done in her life. I didn’t give it much thought before she took me back to her place and told me it is her obligation to take care of me, now that my parents are gone. She said I am the only one who knows her. Her friends are mostly gone. Many people who visit her these days are interviewers or associates of the museum, mostly discussing her artworks. I looked at her eyes, which see me as a delicate object. I wondered what sort of thoughts she’s concealing in the darken part of her hard. Then, she opened the door and asked me to go in. I saw her kitchen first. The sight startled me: the sheer amount of buns on the table took my breath away.

“Surprise!” She said, and used every shred of energy she had left. “You’re in for a treat for tonight. I made more buns than you can ever imagine.” I quickly found a seat at the dining table, and for dinner we had all sorts of cuisine. She ordered takeout from the Cantonese restaurant down on the street, and since she knew the owner, she ordered some of best meals that I have ever had in my life. I was elated by the surprises, and time flew by quickly.

After dinner, we moved ourselves to the living room, and she continued to ask me about my tedious and uncreative job. She insisted that a person like me, who is fairly creative, should try other jobs.

“That’s the nature of my job, auntie. It’s made that way. Besides, I am specialised to do this.”

“But your job doesn’t have to stay that way—I remember the days I understood an artist’s job as only to find an idea and draw it perfectly. I was good at that, but I was wrong. So I changed.”
“This is different. It’s about working with others.”
“Yes. But you could work with them with more laughter. Not demands.”
“Oh.” I said, drily. I then saw her gulp some words down her throat, a sign that she wasn’t pleased with my answer. I didn’t give it much thought because I was thinking something else that I have been puzzled by for the entire day.
“Auntie—if I may ask you something.” I asked, resignedly.
“What’s that?”
“Why did you spend all day with me?”
I was so blatant that I was afraid again, but this time for a different reason. She’s silent for the first time today. She has something to say afterwards and I can see that.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked, urging for an answer.
“No. I think I’ve told you everything you need to know.”
“How about you? Have you thought of the secrets you have kept for all these years??”
Sure, why not? I thought I heard her answering my question, but she didn’t. She had lost that confidence to answer.
“Why? Why all this today?” I asked again.
She stood up at once, walked to her dressing room and looked for something in the chest of drawers. Those were old drawers, and they were mildly creaky. I heard the tiny noises from her room but I sat furtively, waiting for her to come out. I know if I interrupt her she’ll burst. Her sternness is not to be trifled with at times like this, when she’s busy finding something she knew she has enshrouded.
She then walked out with a pile of papers on her hands. She gently handed them to me.
“What are these?” I pondered.
“Oncology test results.” She started. “I have a brain tumour.”
Cancer. I panicked.
“Doctor said I have, at best, a month left.”
I was voiceless. And, slowly, she walked next to me and looked down. I gradually looked up.
“People’d say this time comes for everyone, and now that I am too old for this nonsense, I’m just going to rest. I painted much less recently because cancer hurts my head so much that I can’t think. I’m glad I can still talk, though. I’m just—”
She lost me again. I couldn’t bear to listen to the rest. She’s still looks young, and she lived like a youngster, too, despite the fact that she just had her seventy-sixth birthday. I can’t afford to lose her now. She’s my family, whether she admits it or not.
“There must be something the doctors could do, right?” I asked, resignedly.
“I’m willing to try none of them.” She exuded an intense coldness that froze my mind and emotions.
“Why? Why won’t you try?” I asked with genuine concern and desperation. Unrestrainedly, I sobbed. She looked at me with her starry eyes.
“Because, James, I have too much sins on my back that I’ve wanted to lose for all these. And that time has come.” She withdrew herself rationality entirely. Her feelings then ran like water through a faucet. I asked what she meant and I sat stilly and listened.
“You know why I came back sixteen years ago?”
I shook my head.
“For the first few years since I left here I was alone. I couldn’t live on the mountain and I knew it, but vanity and pride obscured my mind. I stayed, very unwillingly.”
She then let out a sigh of depression. It thickened the air, and clotted the wrinkles on her face. I continued to gaze at her.
“I kept thinking what kept me on the mountain these days.” She continued. Then slowly she choked. “I had only my paintings, and few neighbours. Only Mr. Xiang, a widower, came to me and told me about everything in the mountain. He’s one of those neighbours on the mountains who, you know, is too old to leave there. He’s best gift was his health, until he died one day.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“He tripped when he walked down the mountain one day. Fractures and haemorrhage killed him.”
“I’m sorry, auntie.” She then got up and walked around the room. This time she slowly walked into the dining room adjacent to us, and looked for something in another stack of drawers which she kept meticulously clean as always. The sandalwood look hasn’t been sullied in any way. The mere creaky sound from extensive ageing only bothers me a little. I doubt she picks up the slightly high-pitched sound. The agony on her face spoke more of herself than she could ever do. The little twitches among her cavernous wrinkles led me to think she’s about to forfeit the power of concealing her feelings.
She then walked back to the living room and handed me a photo of a man, grey-haired, much like her, but smooth and combed. He’s unsmiling and ungentle. The dachshund besides him isn’t any better; both his saggy looks on his face and long earlobes made him look elderly. Behind both of them is auntie, also unsmiling and somewhat unkind. But the photo seems peaceful. The three of them looks like family, and the man and auntie appears to be a matching couple: old, but healthy and stern.
“That’s Xiang.” I know who he is now.
“You loved him.” She looked at me so helplessly that I almost wanted to stop. But I can’t; I must know what happened. “Then why—”
“Because I loved him too much to live to see him die.” She took the seat beside me and grew silent. She leant her head against her arm propped up on the armrest of the sofa. She started to remember things and said nothing. It wasn’t just any silence, but some carefully hidden sadness that pervades the room. There is always something her heart that no one knows about, and till this day I still refuse to think she hid it; rather, I think she knew it too well that it already found a snug place to live in many years ago.
And I couldn’t act as if I am emotionless anymore.
“I’m sorry, auntie.” She looked at me and that is the end to her: a kid in her eyes is suddenly harrowingly engaged in her life. I am a burden she can’t quite be rid of, and I hate myself more than she could ever do. But that doesn’t change the fact that she started moving her lips in seconds that pounded me harder than anyone could ever do.
“So things come so suddenly every time. What’s wrong with that?”
Her words astounded me. My heart quivers slower, and now less forcefully as before.
“What are you saying? I thought you’re sad—”
“I am. But I caused all my troubles. You see, I never told you why I want others to call me Mrs. Xue, even though I am a widow.”
I shook my head.
“Xue is the man I loved sixty years ago. He and I lived happily in Guangdong. And right before the Cultural Revolution we married.” She went inside her head to pick up memories that she padlocked ages ago. I watch her stumble to talk in a way she never did before.
“I went away at the time of Cultural Revolution. He forced me to go. He said it was unsafe and people wanted more workers to melt the iron. I hadn’t thought of it much then, but later I realised that I left too much behind. One day I got a letter from his brother, who defected to England. He said right before he left Xue died the Great Leap Forward. He said he died from fatigue, and the chilly winter. Those shredded him into pieces. I tried to go back but his body was long gone; he’s in the soil somewhere in Beijing. Sometimes in my dreams I see him; I thought if I stayed I would’ve died with him, and at least then we’d be together. I regretted my indecency every minute after I read the letter. So I decided to run away into the mountains before my guilt eats me up.”
And the light now wavers around eyes, highlighting her agony and unwillingness to tell this story.
“But Xue was on there. Xiang was too much like Xue. He’s too kind, just like him. The first three years he helped me to get around the shops, the roads, and told me the places where I shouldn’t to go. He walked with me, down the mountain, to get supplies. He told me there’s one read that everyone loved. It is full of azaleas and clear water, and even rainy days the road doesn’t get muddy. So for years I painted my works there; I painted a lot, sometimes too much, with him besides me. And he always told me that since he’s some years younger than me, he’ll outlive me. We joked around a lot. We laughed. I felt he was my lost husband. But I also know Xue is watching me from above and see how I got too close with another man, so I was afraid if it’ll go any further. I wondered what sort of sin would I be carrying if I ever fall in love with Xiang any further. Years past and I chose to leave.”
I looked into her eyes. Her tears are unconsciously falling from the side of her chin.
“I told him, few days before I left, that I’m going to leave. He said he’d support me for whatever I choose to do. I said okay. He just looked at me and said good luck. He asked if I wanted to paint more. I said yes, and he pretended to understand that idea—as he was artistically blind. The next few days I didn’t hear from him at all. I was worried. So the day before I left I planned to go see him, until a policeman showed up at my doors and asked me if I knew Xiang. He said Xiang died. He fell on the road we loved to walk together. The road is somewhat slippery those days, after some summer rain, but it wasn’t steep or dangerous. And he’s so careful like Xue, yet he fell.”
Resignedly, she paused for few seconds. The night outside the window was too quiet to ignore, and in silence there was a static hiss that made us so uncomfortable.
“And that was the story.” Auntie said, at last. “I left men I loved fiercely. I left twice, and you’d think I learn something from the first time. I didn’t. I bet they’re cursing me from above. I bet they hated every piece of me now.”
She gave an uneasy laugh to try and make me forget the words she said. If it is so easy then we’d all be doing it.
And the night rode on with that unending note, sustaining and slurring itself after everything we talked about. She still lives with the burden of two dead men. I stopped talking afterwards. The wind grew uncomfortably chilly. The story sank into the heart, and the clouds that heard her moved away too quickly. I tried to say something to her but I couldn’t. I became a soundless, immaterial blur in her house. I took away the only thing she had left, and afterwards I left, dressing in guilt, without any thud.

*

Monday. A week ago. Auntie left the world in the early morning, while she was snuggly asleep on her hospital bed. I took her to the hospital the morning after the ambivalent day, after I found her cold and still in her bedroom. The doctor said her illness escalated too much because she refused to take treatment. So now they can only alleviate her pain by putting her under anaesthesia and taking painkiller, so she was mostly unconscious for the past week. But, in the times she is conscious she and I talked about my work and my future plan, before she assigned her will to me two days ago. She asked only two things from me: I can neither sell her house nor move her things, and after she dies I need to take her last sixteen works to local museum she loves, so they can exhibit her final pieces. She also gave me a list of captions to attach to each work.

“Be careful, James. Don’t screw them up. The paintings and captions are labelled to correspond to each other. And, please tell Janine to treat these with care, especially the last one. That is the real deal. Take care of that one for me, please.”

Those were her last words before she passed away in the next morning. The day she passed away was just as cloudy, and hell-bent on the rheumatic elements that resemble the days that mother and father died. The wind grew stronger as the hours went by. I thought it tried to dry my tears but it didn’t work, though I went to her funeral two days later and didn’t shed a single tear, because I knew if I did she would say, “don’t cry; things always happen too fast, too suddenly.” But, even if I know she wouldn’t say those things, I wouldn’t cry because I know she’ll still be with me, just not in the same way.

The day has come. Earlier today I called in for a day off, and I went to Mrs. Xue’s house to pick up her paintings and went to the museum she revered. I went and talked to the new museum director, Janine, about Mrs. Xue’s works. She’s too happy to see them; she’s young and rookie compared to Zane (who passed away few weeks before auntie left). But she is just as nice as Zane, so I quickly introduced Mrs. Xue’s last works. I saw the paintings for the first time, with Janine. To me, all of them exquisite, sterling and genuine to her feelings and personality. I knew the kind of person she was, so I felt close to every piece of painting. She even appeared in her paintings, too: in one of them she’s laid back on the turf in her yard, probably just trying to sleep. In another she is making buns, or specifically, making the paste. In the last one she’s sat reading, most likely her favourite book—War and Peace. I read the paintings as Janine slowly, but firmly, took great affection for the unfeigned colours and strokes, which got mellower as we got to more recent works. I knew her hands got too weak for her to forcefully press her chalk onto the canvas. At least her mind didn’t deteriorate as quickly as her body. In these years she started to notice the little details that she would never have noticed when she was younger, including the striations in the violet or the camellia, and the tiny, but striking water stains on the brick exterior of her house. I guess age and experience taught her much more than anyone else can ever do. It’s evident she got wiser and older as she painted. I thought I saw her again, through the last paintings in her life. Janine examined every piece of painting blithely until the last one, which I introduced with a grand statement,

“Mrs. Xue said this is the most important painting of the entire portfolio.”

She was puzzled and so was I, and for a moment I felt I was lying, for I never saw the painting with my own eyes. She gave it a good look and halted entirely. Her eyes are glittering with astonishment. I asked her what’s wrong. She just said it is fantastic, and she became voiceless. I took a look at the painting. There are two men of her age standing in the middle of the work, one on each side of her, all of them with glittering eyes and faces as blunt as a docile squirrel. There is a couple slightly behind them, both grey-haired and grinning too much like a Cheshire cat. Then there is the shorter, healthier, and not entirely attractive young man quite akin to her squatting on the very beginning, with eyes as penetrating as those of hers. Janine took a quick look at me and pointed at the painting, which is set in front of her house. She asked why she decided to reveal her looks and her friends in the paintings. I didn’t know how to answer her. She then asked what her inspiration was, and where she got it from. Again, I said I didn’t know. Resignedly, she asked what the painting is called. I looked at the sheet Mrs. Xue gave me, and I looked at the bottommost description,

Call me Edith.

I ran out of voice before I could speak to her.