Back in Seattle after a week and a half trip to Myanmar, Arnold and his wife Ruth are glad to be home in their apartment overlooking the Puget Sound. They're eager to return to the comfortable familiarity of their bed but they want to throw the first load into the washer before sleeping off the jet lag and so they're hastily unpacking.
As Ruth is unfurling a long shawl, purchased at a local flea market, a small piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. At first she thinks it's merely a receipt or some random piece of trash. She bends over to pick it up, intending to toss it into the nearest trash can but what, from a distance, appeared to be a random black pattern upon closer inspection turns out to be very fine, very small handwriting.
"Take a look at this," she says, holding the sheet close to her face, examining the writing.
Arnold throws another pair of shorts and a soiled shirt into the laundry basket then walks over to see what his wife is holding in her hands.
"It's some kind of writing, it's in Burmese, I have no idea what it is," she says, handing the sheet over to him.
"Maybe it's from the hotel, like a token of thanks."
"But why would it be in Burmese? And look closer. It's hand written. See, you can see the indentations, you can tell this someone wrote this."
"Well, honey, I can't read Burmese either. It's probably a mistake. Come on, I want to get to bed, I'm so tired and my back. . ."
No comments:
Post a Comment