We’ve got McDonalds in our hands. Mine’s a Coke. That’s all. She’s carrying an egg Mcmuffin thing. And we’re talking about dragons.
“You should write about dragons,” I tell her, sipping my Coke.
“I just like drawing them,” she says. She’s so small. Under my shoulders. Her hair is as long as mine used to be and her little voice is even smaller.
“I mean, why do you love them so much?” I ask her.
“I don’t know,” she says, her wide eyes even wider. “I just do.”
“Don’t you want to know why? I mean, they’re symbols. Do you want to explore that?”
“No,” she says. Just like that. Just as simple as that. Then, she smiles with that big smile that’s bigger than her. Her pure joy ringing in her voice.
She says it again, as if to reassure me. “No.” That big smile.
“I’m not like you,” she says. “I don’t want to figure them out. I’m very happy with just loving them.” Pause. “And drawing them.”
The light says, “Walk,” and she crosses the street. I pause for just a moment, then follow her.
* * *
“Sometimes, a mystery is supposed to be a mystery.”
— The Tao of Zen Nihilism