8 And so we do

Every teacher gives me the same advice: “Write what you know.”

So this is my story. This is what I know. Actions speak louder than words.

Maybe you already know that, but we all need a reminder from time to time. At least, I know that I do.

Words are important; that is true. But words can mean nothing if we don’t do what we say. And we can learn a lot from watching what other people do, too. For example …

What if your father had to move to another country to find a job? What if your husband had a car accident and now he is in a wheelchair for the rest of his life? What if you always sat on your hands and never jumped at the chance to do something you always wanted?

Tonight, we are back at the coffee shop. Quang has a new art show, and this is the opening night of his exhibit. It’s called: “What If?”

As usual, Quang’s paintings are invisible. He keeps the frames very simple because he does not want people to be distracted by the frames. However, Quang writes very interesting titles and descriptions for each work of art. For example, one says:

What if a boy in a coat with a goat has a row in the bow of a robot rowboat?
(It’s amazing to note how they stay afloat in the moat.)

Amazing, right? Quang doesn’t need paint on canvas. When people look at his invisible paintings, they can hear the picture in their minds. And the picture is always perfect because it is exactly as they imagined it. It’s so weird, but it’s also so wonderful.

More people now arrive at the exhibit. Everyone is dressed up. They stop in front of each picture. They look. They say something quietly to each other and nod their heads up and down.

The coffee shop owner Mel is mingling, sharing champagne, and challenging strangers: “I dare you,” he says. “Tell me what you see.”

All of our friends are here, too:

Abdi and Ahmed are debating an invisible painting titled What if a lobster was a little closer? Abdi says he sees a close-up of a very big lobster very near to him. Ahmed, however, says he sees a tiny lobster “closing” (successfully finishing) a business deal.

Francisco is piling a plate high with pie. He brought his neighbors—the mother and son. Every time Francisco takes another slice of pie, the boy makes another pi joke. For instance, “Why should you never talk to pi? … Because he’ll just go on forever.”

And all eight of the Ukrainian cake cousins seem to be playing musical chairs, sitting down when the music stops and jumping up when it starts again.

Even Onry is here, the man who sang with us here in the coffeeshop.

Onry takes me to an unusual frame. I did not notice it before. It is different from the others. The frame is made of many shapes. The shapes are ukuleles and dogs, ukuleles and dogs, ukuleles and dogs all around the empty space in the middle.

I look for the label to read the title. It says:

What if a wonderful weirdo wields a box of weird wonder?
(“I do,” says he. But will she?)

I am not sure exactly what it means. It seems to be a riddle. It plays with the words “wonderful weirdo” and “weird wonder.”

“What do you see in the painting?” asks Onry. I look at him. Something is different. Something is unusual. Onry smiles as if he has a secret.

“Well,” I begin. “‘Wonderful weirdo’ must be—”

When I turn back to the frame, I now see Quang on the other side.

“And ‘to wonder’ is to want to know something, or to ask something,” I say, not looking away.

Quang smiles as if he has a secret, too.

“So this box must have an unusual question in it,” I conclude.

On the other side of the empty frame, Quang gently opens the little box. Inside is a simple ring—a wedding ring.

Onry reads the title of the invisible painting again: “What if a wonderful weirdo wields a box of weird wonder? (‘I do,’ says he. But will she?)”

Quang is speechless. He is so nervous that he cannot find his voice. He cannot find the words. So he blinks his eyes, and I know exactly what it means:  “Will you marry me, Alma?”

I blink back to say, “I will.”

Quang reaches through the frame and wraps his arms around me. We kiss, and all of our friends clap and cheer.

Quang wants to put the ring on my finger. First, however, he wants me to look more closely. He wants me to see the words on the inside of the ring. I start laughing. I imagine something like “Our dog has fleas!” That would be so funny.

But then I stop laughing because I can’t see anything. I look on the inside. I look on the outside. I am confused. I look at Quang, and he smiles and blinks his eyes.

That’s when I understand. Like his art, Quang’s words are invisible, too. But his actions speak louder than any words.

I should know this by now, shouldn’t I?

All of a sudden there is music. Abdi plays the drums. Francisco plays the harmonica. And Onry is singing. Quang and I are soon surrounded by the Ukrainian cake cousins clapping and shouting “Bitter! Bitter! Make it sweeter!”

And so we do.

THE END