To the TEA GIRL OF HUMMINGBIRD LANE

I found you at the public libary. I was looking for any Asian author. I am obsessed with Korea. You were sitting on the small book stand, a feature. I perused past my head tilted to the side to read the vertical names. That is how our faces met. Yours shrouded behind golden leaves and a sunset hue. Mine beneath plastic frames and a mask.

There was something about the cover that I am not ashamed to say pulled me to you. I tore my gaze away to read the back. Flipped to the front to read the introductory blurb. I turned to the first chapter. I liked the font, it was just the right size. My thumb ran through the length of your pages like a deck of cards, just the right sound. My fingers gripped your spine, just the right heft. Just the right book I thought. But it wasn't "just right."

As I walked out of the library you made the first mistake. You lured me to open you at work. I shouldn't have because I should have made tea, at home, and taken notes. You made me laugh. I am guilty because of it. Why? Because I did not cry when you were sad. I am afraid I was too detached.

Yours was a world full of culture, real or not, it was tangible the spirit of devotion and tradition. I remember how I used to dance when I was five. Before my Ama took that from me. You experienced that too. The force of change, the people who have made bad memories subconciously.

But I was envious of you because you rose like the tea trees you hid away, to become a master of the trade, to become a savy business woman, to hold on to the best parts of your moutain girl life. The way you still loved your little girl, born out of such hope and steadfast faith in the man of your youthful visions made me jealous of her. I never knew my birth mom. My adopted Mother probably wishes for this bond. It takes two.

You and her, together at last. You and me, forever. I bought a used copy so I can see your face more often. Be reminded of the life of one fictional girl.