Lychee Nuts

In the pale light of October the lychee nuts scatter across the sidewalk as if autumn hates them. The clinking they make as they hit the cold cement is soon eclipsed by the cries of the Chinese woman who now bends over them and attempts to bring them to order and retrieve from them what she might. I imagine that in them she sees a new pair of shoes disappear from view, and I wonder how she might account for her loss. There is time now for me to help. I have arisen only an hour ago, well after she began her labor for the day, and I have nowhere in particular to be. I stand on the other side of Bayard Street and feel that the twenty feet of asphalt might as well be the stretch of America and the Pacific that separate her parents from mine, now narrowed into a small artery traversing Chinatown. I notice teeth missing from her mouth and think myself shallow for caring or feeling pity.

By the time I decide to help she has finished the job, her back curved over the basket into which she dumps the fruit. There is nothing for me to say and yet I want to communicate- to have her know that someone has noticed, even if I did nothing. In fact, I stood there and stared blankly at her strain. It probably was foolish; I probably appeared dumbfounded. A stream of tourists gathers force and flows between us. I do not move. When the crowd thins, I step across the thoroughfare and purchase a bag of lychee. She holds out her fingers and motions that it is two dollars. No English. I think it too little and hand her a five-dollar bill and turn to leave, but she puts her hand on my shoulder and when I turn back she places the change in my hand and closes it. I shake my hand and give her the money back. She gives me another bag. I laugh and she does, too. I want to take all of the nuts and give her enough for all of them and then she can buy shoes or whatever it is for which she toils.

I wonder if she is married and is she loved and does anyone cook for her and is it possible to see in the long creases in her face the care of a father; and how did she come here and did she come alone and was it treacherous and if this is what her life amounts to, surely there is dignity in that. The lychee nuts fell to the ground and it is all in a day’s work, isn’t it? This is her corner of the world, and she feels no shame. I feel shame, now on the other side of the street again, where it is safe to look and admire and eat and buy and then to return to wherever it is we call home. Is a transaction of money what I can offer her? And why should I offer her anything? There is joy in the creases of her face.

In the frigid October wind I withdraw a few steps and admire this woman for whom life seems destitute; but she does not feel that. She knows that she will awaken each morning and sell her wares and then retire to whatever cramped quarter houses her bed, alone or with another I do not know. My morning, drawing to its close, now seems full, like the moon reflecting something far brighter. I glance up at the sun and head my way and chew a delicious lychee.