c u p p e n r o o d

1071. She said her father was

an American soldier.

She was from Vietnam, grew up living near the beach.
Her voice is soft and pretty to hear, like a blossom might speak.
She said that there were hurricanes every year. "So you lived with destroyed
houses every year," I said. "Yes," she said, explaining that they were inexpensive and plain for that reason. I did not understand every word she said, because her voice is quiet, but I did understand her gesture for her own house having a "metal roof, very hot," she said, shaking her head.

The color I had chosen for my nails was a purplish burgundy with sparkles in the color. I don't think her words sunk in fast, that her father was (or is) an American soldier. I had to remember hearing her say that as I paid my bill and drove away because it seemed possible that I did not hear that. But I had. She said that.

In talking during the time it took pleasantries and her steady skill to remove and prepare and apply a new shade to dry on my hands, I considered her. I think of her now and continue to think of her. She and her husband are not simply business owners putting their children through college, waiting for their time, a later time, to think of themselves. She is giving every day of her life into a service that is long working hours, making a living in America. She grew up in Vietnam, and her father was an American soldier. An American soldier. I don't know why that is marvelous, but it is completely marvelous to me.