The Canvas Within

My heart had always been composed of graphite. It didn't pump out globs of carmine Asian paint like my grandmother’s. Instead, pumped through my veins were harsh lines of grey provoked by the fast scratches of a Ticonderoga pencil.  

When my grandmother greets me at the airport, I look to my parents to translate. My grandmother is talking cheerfully, but I can only give her tight-lipped smiles and nods. My father tells me that she asks how drawing is going, and whether I’ve missed China. 

I lie, saying I missed China.  I do not miss this place, I groan internally, I can barely speak to the people here.  

My grandma notes my unresponsive attitude, and then hands me a box. From the transparent sides I can see tubes of paint and a paintbrush stored inside the package. 

“Gei ni,” she says. For you. “Hua hu hua pi nan hua gu, zhi ren zhi mian bu zhi xin.” 

I look at my mom and she explains, “It’s a saying, paint a tiger and you can only paint fur; paint a human and you can only paint their face, not their heart. Meaning you don’t truly know people, unless you can understand their heart.” Why’d my grandma say that? I ponder for a bit—I can draw my mother’s heart; it would be of bright tulips blossoming on a warm spring. I can draw my father’s heart; it would be blocky and made of computer components that pumped electricity. I can draw my friends’ heart too, and as for my grandmother-- 

I stare at her, what is her heart? She's family, shouldn’t I know? 

I thank her and she nods, her soft hazelnut eyes crinkling. I continue looking at her, I can sketch her face, I think. However, contemplating even further, my mom’s words sink into me like markers bleeding through paper, and I realize I indeed cannot draw my grandmother’s heart. 

One week in and all I have been doing is sitting in the guest room, succumbing to boredom, scribbling away on a graphite-smeared paper. Lead taints my hands while my family members’ hands hold playing cards outside in the living room—laughing away in Mandarin. I wish I could join them, but if I did, I’d just look like I didn’t belong. Before loneliness could fully confine me to its chambers, my grandmother then walks in, grabbing the paint she gave me and sits by my side. I stare at her confused, but she just places the brush into my hand and signals me to dip it into the paint. I do so and the paint scatters on the paper as I try to draw. She shakes her head, takes the brush and brushes onto the page delicately. Her hand and the paintbrush are one and they dance together in unison, effortlessly forming a quick, but beautiful panda. The amazement in my eyes must have signaled how stunning her illustration was as she grins and hands the brush to me, as if to say: your turn. I paint a tree; it’s messy with splotches of paint smearing together and she laughs, making me smile. She takes my hand to show me her painting collection throughout her life, and it speaks to me. I gasp at how one paintbrush can replicate her world. I don’t know what she’s saying, but somehow through her paint I feel like I know. I understand.  

Years pass, and I haven’t visited China since, yet I yearn to do so. It’s the summer before high school and using my grandma’s paint, I draw a lotus; the toxic yet comforting turpentine smell reminding me of her. I video call her to show her my work, and she claps joyously seeing my progress. Witnessing my lotus sketch transformed by the paint, I recognize a shift within my heart. No longer being composed of only pure American lead, it now embraces the rich hues of an Asian painting palette. I realized that language and geographical barriers could not impede familial connections and cultural understanding. Through my grandmother's paint, I gained insight, open-mindedness and understood that the cultivation of relationships is essential and could transcend any restrictions. With newfound understanding, I gazed at my grandmother through the screen; thinking about how I could paint the softness in her eyes, the joy evident in her smile lines, and grinning to myself I knew I could paint the canvas of her heart.