Distant Encounters

The house of miracles was a nondescript building on the side of a traffic-choked road. According to my mother, a beautiful cherry blossom added a touch of color to the structure’s otherwise drab exterior, but I went in the winter, my eyes tracing the gnarly and convoluted remnants of a fabled beauty. I was skeptical that any modicum of magic could be performed in the place behind it, a gray, one-story building with an even grayer door.
I’ve always been on the shorter side of the height spectrum. After I convinced my mother that hanging from monkey bars would not, in fact, lengthen my spine, she finally resorted to our Chinese heritage, to this tired-looking acupuncture clinic in central Beijing.
One day, as we sat in the waiting room, a six-year-old boy ran in, acupuncture needles protruding from his skull. He giggled, tugging on his dark blue fleece jacket with one hand while cradling his chin with the other.
“Say hi to everyone,” his mom breathlessly called out from behind.
His salutation came in a high-pitched voice. As his wide-eyed gaze trickled from person to person, I noticed he looked a bit different.
“He couldn’t speak before last year,” a doctor whispered. “His mental capacity is still slow for his age, but he’s progressing.”
The little boy ran around the room, weaving in and out of patients’ legs as he held up various objects. He suddenly appeared in front of me.
“What is this?” he asked in a squeaky voice.
Before I could reply (“it” was an orange), he had already grabbed a piece of chocolate, leaving me with my mouth partially ajar as he barreled into his mother. He posed the same question.
“It’s chocolate—qiaokeli,” she told him, pinching his nose before unwrapping the sweet confection.
“Qiao…ke…li!” he repeated, reaching for the candy.
A bright smile grew on his mother’s face. Though the little boy would soon forget this moment, I knew his mother wouldn’t. The chocolate may have been his prize, but each new word was her reward. It was proof of his recovery.
“It’s your turn,” a tap on my shoulder jolted me. As I got up, I felt guilty for my “illness,” a characteristic that is neither life-threatening nor debilitating. In light of his mental disability, my height seemed trivial.
When I lay down, the little boy’s face flashed through my mind. And I finally understood why he looked so different: he was beautiful. Crooked teeth, small eyes, acupuncture needles and all, he was beautiful with his childlike curiosity. He was pure.