The Meaning of Foot Washing
She has a gambling dad, a sick mom, and a school-age brother. She is a broken girl. I don't know her name. The first time I saw her, she was standing in front of me with a small suitcase. It had just rained and people felt a little cool. She stood there obediently, looking at me with tender eyes.
I have never experienced such personal tenderness. When I asked her to come over, she held my hand with a hint of shyness. Perhaps it was because the night was too charming, I was actually a little moved.
In that dimly lit little room, we talked about everything from the beach to mainland China, from Tagore to Van Gogh. Tenderness flooded us like a tide. I hope this moment will last forever, and I hope it will belong to me forever.
She is a beautiful white flower. I touch her beauty with my own hands, but I cannot pick up her imperfections. I think she must be free, and no external objects can restrain her existence.
I simply felt sorry for her fate. She was burdened with such a heavy responsibility in the prime of her youth: a father addicted to gambling, a younger brother less than a year old. None of this should have been her responsibility. I wanted to take her away, away from this place, to a place free of worries and pain, where there would be only us, only happiness.
But I underestimated her stubbornness. In the hazy night, she rejected my kindness, and only then did I realize what was happening. After all, she was a flower planted in a pot; whether she bloomed or withered was not determined by the passing draft. It was then that I realized I wasn't washing her feet, but walking through the muddy world. All I could do was to help her from time to time.
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