We can look at our own hands. We can see our feet, our stomach, even the ends of our hair. But the face is different. Without a mirror, a photograph, or some other reflection, we cannot directly see our own face as a whole. It stays with us every moment of our lives, yet other people often see it more clearly than we do. There is something strange and beautiful about that. The moment the girl tasted the sweet, her grandmother knew she liked it before she said a word. Her eyes widened. Her cheeks relaxed. Her mouth opened into a smile. Feelings exist somewhere inside us, yet sometimes they spill outward through the face. A happy face. A sad face. A worried face. An angry face. A relieved face. Someone may say, “I’m fine,” while their face quietly tells us that something is wrong. At other times, a smile can communicate gratitude before the words “thank you” are ever spoken. Perhaps the face is therefore more than a place where the eyes, nose, and mouth happen to meet. It can be a place where the inner self meets the outside world. And there is another curious thing about faces. To see our own, we need something else. A mirror. The surface of water. A photograph. Or sometimes another person. “You look happy today.” “Are you tired?” “Did something good happen?” Someone may say these things to us, and only then do we notice what we ourselves are feeling. In that sense, other people can sometimes become a little like mirrors. They can reflect parts of us that we could not see alone. Of course, a face never tells us everything. A person can smile while feeling sad. Some people show very little of what they feel through facial expressions. So looking at someone’s face does not give us the right to decide exactly what is happening inside them. Instead, a face can be a beginning— an invitation to pay attention. The girl looks at her grandmother. Her grandmother looks at the girl. They are face to face. Perhaps something of that relationship lives inside the idea of 顔 as well. Our face belongs to us, but it is also turned outward toward other people. And their faces are turned toward us. To “face” someone may therefore mean more than simply occupying the same place. It can quietly say: You are here. I am here too. As Grandmother wipes the flour from the girl’s cheek, she sees the child’s joyful face. And the girl, looking back, discovers Grandmother’s smile. Neither of them can directly see her own smile. But each can see the other’s. Perhaps a smile is not only something we wear for ourselves. Perhaps it is also something our face quietly gives to the person standing before us.

One autumn afternoon, the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of freshly steamed treats. The girl and her grandmother had been making chestnut sweets together since morning. They wrapped filling inside the dough, shaped each piece, and arranged them carefully in the steamer. At last, the first batch was ready. “Can I eat one now?” the girl asked impatiently. “It’s still hot.” Grandmother placed one on a small plate and waited for it to cool before handing it to her. The girl held it carefully in both hands. Then she took a bite. At once— her eyes widened. A huge smile spread across her face. Grandmother smiled too. “Looks like they turned out well.” The girl looked surprised. “But I haven’t said anything yet.” “You didn’t need to.” “How did you know?” Grandmother pointed toward the girl’s cheek. “It’s written all over your face.” The girl touched her cheek. “Where?” “Not there.” Laughing, Grandmother gently wiped away a little flour from the girl’s cheek with a cloth. “Your face says, ‘Delicious.’” The girl looked even more puzzled. “But I can’t see it.” “That’s because it’s your own face.” The girl peered into the smooth surface of a nearby bowl. A faint reflection looked back at her. “You’re right. I can’t see my own face directly.” “But I can see it,” Grandmother said. This time the girl studied Grandmother’s face. The corners of her eyes were soft. A gentle smile rested around her mouth. “Oh.” “What?” “You have a happy face too, Grandma.” Grandmother looked surprised for a moment. Then she laughed. “You caught me.” The girl laughed with her. Their laughter filled the kitchen. A face belongs to us, yet other people usually see it before we do. And sometimes another person can discover a feeling on our face before we have even noticed it ourselves. That afternoon, the girl learned more than how to make sweets. She learned that when we truly look at the face of the person before us, we may sometimes glimpse feelings that have not yet become words.

Collecting this kanji brings these jukugo closer ✨