I was at the river. People were playing music and drums. When I heard them, I followed the sound. I sat with them and listened. There were many people gathered—some stopped for a while to listen, others passed by but still smiled.
After some time, I noticed a mother with her son. He must have been five or six years old. She was just one of the passersby, but when she heard the music, she picked him up in a peculiar way—horizontally, behind her back—and began to dance. She didn’t stop. At first, I marveled at her strength, wondering how long she could keep it up. To my surprise, she never faltered.
I didn’t see the boy’s face, but I knew he must have been smiling wide. Instead, I saw her dancing. I saw her spirit, her joy. I wondered who she was. Was the man behind them her husband? How did she speak? What did she talk about? What impressed her? What made her happy? In essence, I wanted to know who she was.
I remember thinking I would love to have a girl like that. Since that moment, I have thought about it often. It was a happy memory, one I recall vividly, and I am grateful for it.
Today, I thought about it again.
And I wondered—was it the woman who impressed me?
Or was it the mother?