Yesterday I went to a hospital to see my doctor for the routine check-up of hypertension. As usual, there were so many outpatients that the nurse had to prearrange somehow to make the process more efficient: while the doctor interviewed or treated a patient in his room, the nurse would invite the next patient into the waiting room for some preliminary checks, e.g., measuring blood pressure; in the meantime, she would print out the prescription sheet and schedule the return visit for the previous patient who just finished and waited outside.

Finally, it was my turn. When I opened the door, a lady, the previous patient, was about to walk out. I didnt pay much attention to her, even though she thanked me for my courtesy in giving her right of way. All I knew was that she was about my age, maybe younger. But who cares? Almost all of the patients who have cardiovascular problems are seniors like me. After finishing the job on my part, the nurse opened the door and called that lady to get her prescription sheet. When the nurse called out the name, a name so familiar that I would never forget, I was totally shocked. Suddenly, I jerked up from the chair in which I was sitting and rushed to the door. "Is it her? I nervously wondered. Then I took a good look at that lady again, but I just couldnt be certain that it was her. With just one look, how can you identify a person, even your parent, who has been away from your eyes for 45 years? When I returned to the waiting room, I asked the nurse the characters of the name she was just now calling. She showed me the name, exactly the same as the one I was eager for. Yet I couldnt be sure it was her—a namesake maybe; after all, so many years elapsed. It doesnt matter any more, except that my heart was throbbing with emotion.

The time was when I lived in a suburb of Taipei, a rural backwater. I was a college student in my senior year, and she was a 12th grader at a prestigious girls high school, living in the neighborhood. We often met at a bus stop at the same time in the morning because the frequency of buses then was scarce. An elegant young lady, though not that pretty, a girl-of-next-door in kind, she was really a sight for sore eyes of mine. I always stared at her from afar and from her back, of course. Admiration was aglow within my heart, I must say. You know, at that time, the social code of ethics restrained me from making her acquaintance directly by expressing myself rather than via a formal introduction, and I dared not be called a masher. The last year of short, neatly cut hair and green uniforms of her high school days soon passed away; she went to college, and I took my military service at the islet of the frontier. A year later, I returned to Taipei, but my family moved to another district. So I havent seen her since yesterday, if it was her.

You may ask me, How did I know her name without ever speaking with her? I learned it from a quick peek at her uniform when we were close to each other on the bus. I dont have a pair of sharp eyes any more, but I still own myself a heart of eternity.