FACES
OF STRANGERS
A crowd gathered, waiting for the restaurant to open. Seated
among the Asian throng, no one spoke a language I understood. Relieved of the
normal eavesdropping occupation, I could fade into the background where comfort
is guaranteed.
I like to look at the faces of strangers. I like to pick out
who is married to whom; mirror neurons clearly molding spousal selection into
identifiable couples. Their faces shapes resemble each other as if born brother
and sister.
It’s fun, obvious (to me, at least), and reveals more than
lives lived.
Carved facial features let me in on private joys or painful
episodes shared by two people I’ll never know. Reading expressions, watching
reactions, traversing well-worn lines on heightened foreheads and layers of
neck-folds, lets me know secrets not well hidden, as with any chartered map of
any remote hiding place.
It’s true we mirror each other, especially whom we love and
live with. How that works is a mystery. We are born unique, but blend
beautifully by copying curved lips, squinted eyes, twitching noses. Even sounds
are echoed: laughter sounds similar, hushed tones match, accents blend,
obscuring regional differences to a distant past.
Of course the kids look like the parents. That’s genius
genetics. Thus, two complete strangers meet, marry, multiply, and presto! Faces
of strangers are familiar and familial.
Most curious of all is the effect we all have on each other.
We copy friends, we adopt habits, we emulate those we admire, and mirror
exactly those we love.
I think I used to speak differently. I know I’ve acted a
million different ways, depending on where in the world I was, or what in the
world I was doing.
I can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever “mirrored” me?
That would lead me to wonder why they would want to.
We morph because we are all insecure about something or
another.
Sitting there in that crowd watching every detail from
posture to lost composure at having to wait to be seated, I listened to babble
in foreign tongue and guardedly assumed what was no doubt debatable.
I like to look at the faces of strangers. I like to suppose
their stories are any more fantastic than my own.
I’ll never know.
Just Another Lori Story
