Guest
Whenever my nephew comes home, he inspects my place with wonder and enthusiasm. Usually, his favorite items are my Google Home speaker (upon request, it makes all kinds of animal sounds, including unicorns and dragons), a rose-colored Bluetooth keyboard, and a fancy tripod I always bring on my trips. But the other day, as he went through my stuff again, he found something interesting — something I hadn't thought of for a long time.
He found two beaded geckos I used to make in Hawaii. A friend of mine first taught me how to make them, and since then, I went to many different craft stores in town in search of the most beautiful beads.
Eventually, I made dozens of geckos as gifts, tucking them into birthday and holiday letters. The ones my nephew found were from my early attempts, when I was still experimenting with colors and designs. Although I was delighted to see them, my nephew had no interest in either the geckos or my memories. He simply moved on to the next item: my new red lipstick. But I found myself still holding the geckos in my hand, my mind drifting back to those days I made them.
Maybe because of the season, but these days I often look back on my initial days in grad school. The day of my arrival, the people who came out to the airport, the small room I stayed in for a semester, and the stunning view of Manoa, where I often slept under the moonlight and woke up to the sound of birds.
When I first encountered a live gecko, I flinched. I didn't know whether I should kill it, ignore it, or capture and release it. Thankfully it left when I came back from the shower. Later, when I learned that geckos eat cockroaches, I welcomed them, and dreamt of raising one like a pet.
A couple weeks before I left school, I saw a beautiful gecko walking over the outside table I was sitting at. I remember that day because there were three or four people sitting next to me, and they spoke in sign language. In silence, I admired the beauty of their soft hand gestures and vivid facial expressions.
My life, on the other hand, wasn't so peaceful. Graduation was only a few months away and I was still drafting my thesis and job applications. Every day I would go to Starbucks and order two giant lattes: one in the morning, one in the evening. I wished every day consisted of 48 hours, or the weekend of four days.
In the midst of all that, there was this wonderful green gecko with clear blue eyes, peacefully strolling the campus. It looked so cool and original, so effortlessly and completely itself. Looking at it, I almost wanted to ask, "How did you do it? How did you become the best, beautiful version of yourself?" Because here was a creature that had already manifested the best of itself, while I felt like I was still a caterpillar — uncertain, unformed, not yet knowing what I would become.
In fact, that was the recurring question I had for a long time. Every time I ran into my favorite artists, I kept asking them, "How did you do it?” Underneath that question, what I was really asking was, “How did you make me fall in love — with your art?"
My nephew left before dinnertime. As I picked up his toys and cleaned up the house, I placed my geckos on the table instead of storing them away in a drawer. I smiled whenever I saw them. They reminded me of my youth, and the days of high hope and heartbreak. Everything went away too quickly, I thought. Everything has changed.
