Skip to main content

She

 A boy is waiting in a station wagon for his mother who ran into a nearby shop.

The boy feels the street is somehow off key relative to the music of the rest of the city. Within the stirrings of newspapers and plastic bags, a cough of exhaust from a passing bus unveils a vague shape of a woman among the pandemonium of torn magazines, Styrofoam cups, McDonald burger wrappers, and various other urban droppings. She is shaped by the debris of her city. She organizes and reorganizing various discarded plastic bottles and aluminum soda cans with genteel precision of a collector of fine crystal. She abruptly stops and takes out a shinny gold tube of blood-red lipstick and frantically circle and re-circle her worn lips; rebelliously crossing their chafed boundaries.

She huddles closer to the wall of The First National Bank building as all the people hurry past her.  Wrapping her cast-off, button-less coat tighter around her body, she scoots across the flattened cardboard box serving as her bed; closer to the warm air flowing from a grate venting the tunnels that meander beneath the city. 
A passing priest offers her a steaming cup of coco. She feels it's warmth and grasps it with hands gloved by fuzzy red socks.
“Thank you,” she croaks with her little-used voice.
The priest gives her a sad smile, “Bless you my poor child.” and hurries on his way.
Taking a careful sip of the steaming sweetness, She reaches up and pulls her tattered wool cap farther down over her freezing ear lobes, hearing the musical teenagers, arguing elderly, and lost lunatics scurry through the city.

The boy's mind observes her as music apart from the bustling boulevard. Then, the crescendo...With the grace of a ballerina, she stands fully erect and tilts her chin upward. She lifts her crochet hat from her head; her long white hair cascading downward around her shoulders; all except for a few maverick strands that fly up with the city's breath. She smiles contentedly and inhales deeply.

The boy could no longer tell where She ended and he began. She was a Goddess, as lovely as any fair maiden …unassuming.


Meanwhile, people obliviously walk by this grand lady as they talk on cell phones, puff on cigarettes, push babies in strollers, and pull dogs on leashes.

The boy gets out of the car without any decision to do so. Cars peripherally crossed his path as he jaywalks across the street. Then, as if in some small bubble of time, the boy approaches her. All sounds are distant; all the city's movement suspended. He takes a five-dollar bill from his rear pocket and seats himself beside her on the flattened cardboard box. The boy somehow knows that words have no place. In tandem with his curiosity is fear. He wants to look into her eyes to see what he would feel.

In pantomime, he takes her hand and places the bill very deliberately into it. She faces him. With the hand that received his offering she replaces it into the hand that offered it as if she had done it five times a day; everyday. The boy looks at her face to show her his insistence. Her eyes are cool, not cold but cool, like watery mirrored circles reflecting all his motivations back at him. She smiles as if to signify that She is in no need.

She is regal. She is also blind. Yet, her eyes are brilliant and revealing. She is not burdened with visions of the city; of its reality. She is forever the young maiden running gleefully from castle to castle over the countryside carefully holding up the hem of her gown to make way for her ambitious bare feet.





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bingo Across the Aisle

  At Sunset Palms Assisted Living, peace used to sound like plastic bingo chips rattling in paper cups, peppermint tea sloshing in saucers, and someone asking, every forty seconds, whether the thermostat had been touched. Then came the North Lounge Incident. No one could later agree on what started it. Mr. Henderson said it was the remote control. Mrs. Gable said it was “the tone.” Dr. Aris insisted, with academic sorrow, that civilization had begun its decline when someone changed the channel during a documentary about Eleanor Roosevelt. By Thursday, Sunset Palms had split in two. The North Lounge became the Blue Room, filled with navy cardigans, reusable water bottles, and residents who nodded gravely at panel discussions. The South Lounge became the Red Room, heavy with scarlet vests, patriotic mugs, and people who said “common sense” as if it were a legal weapon. Management thought it was being clever. “We are creating emotional safety,” said Brenda, ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The 7 Virtues of Creativity EP. 3 - NOBODY ASKED HER WHY

  The conference room was climate-controlled to a degree that felt aggressive, a steady, humming chill that kept the air smelling faintly of ozone and expensive espresso. Wisdom sat at the polished mahogany table, her knuckles resting lightly against the grain. At sixty-five, she had learned how to occupy space deliberately, without apology or invitation. Across from her, the curator, a young man with a sharp haircut and a vest that cost more than Wisdom’s first car, gestured toward a projected slide of her latest series. He spoke with the rhythmic, practiced cadence of someone who had never had to worry about the cost of paint or the silence of a studio that lacked a heating bill. “What we’re really aiming for,” he said, smiling with a bright, professional warmth, “is a sense of creative empowerment. This exhibition isn’t just a display; it’s an immersive community experience. We want to uplift artistic voices and facilitate a dialogue centered on radical engagement.” Wisdom...
Post a Comment
Read more

Citizen

    At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life. Not in a bad way. In a relieved way. My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me. Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together. And I was happy. Or maybe content is the better word. Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval. But ...
Post a Comment
Read more