13
I didn’t worry about Jesse. Sam and I drove to
Tibet.
Lucky wasn’t afraid of the car. He peered out
the window, curious.
“Your cat is adorable.”
Sam and I were closer now. He started joining
in my jokes, sharing interesting things.
His mild autism seemed to be healing.
“Lucky is my friend’s cat, his treasure.”
Sam knew a little about Ethan. He felt sorry
for the boy who loved the sun. He changed
the subject, afraid of upsetting me.
Entering Tibet, we both shouted in
excitement.
Sam reacted even more strongly. He pulled
out his easel and began to paint.
<
I took pictures and started painting Ethan.
I worked on the portrait for two weeks,
constantly revising, even tearing it up seven
times. I wasn’t satisfied.
In my memory, Ethan was gentle, a boy
bathed in sunlight. I painted our first meeting,
his kind smile;
I painted his smile when he took me to the
hospital;
I painted his weak smile, basking in the sun.
But I wasn’t satisfied. Something was missing.
Sam praised my discarded sketches, saying I
was too hard on myself.
I firmly told him, “I can’t compromise on
Ethan.”
I was the only one who remembered him; I
couldn’t compromise.
He didn’t argue.
Two weeks later, we waited for sunrise at the
Potala Palace.
<
The Tibetan night was cold. Sam gave me his
extra coat. “You can sleep. I’ll wake you when
the sun rises.”
I shook my head. Waiting was boring, even for
Sam. He told a joke.
“Why did Jesus never read Buddhist
scriptures?
Because he didn’t speak Chinese.”
It was a bad joke, but his hopeful expression
was amusing.
We became closer. He called me “Sister
Sarah“; I called him Sam, but treated him
more like a younger brother.
