An old woman keeps to herself. |
Old Gabrielle came from France when a good part of the world knew war, before the space race, when Hitler reigned. Thin, white-haired, five foot tall or thereabouts, she shuns our society, yes, much like a vampire shuns a crucifix. Yet on her kitchen cupboard doors, she has taped those pages of Guideposts, almost as if a righteous decorator feeding on on a diet of saintly verse. And so, this is isolation’s neighborhood, all right, one red brick ranch where Gabrielle abides, hedges overgrown helter-skelter pawing front windows like verdant hands, lazy and lost. Such unkempt growth does not go unnoticed, though, as caustic comments flow from neighbors sharp enough to tongue rude, to heap eye-rolls and scowl Old Gabrielle's way, like the soot and ash of so many dark hearts. For she has heard the ongoing snipes and prejudice spewed due to her born elsewhere, the mocking and rancor cast blithely because of her French accent. Thus the stay-away, the world of one, the adamant avoidance of any vis-à-vis despite people, albeit crass, a holler away, and despite a neighborhood where folks mingle and the mailman strides. Sometimes, though, when winter relents to the warmth of spring, Old Gabrielle carries a tray of lemon, rice cakes, boiled yam and poached eggs to the front porch and enjoys her breakfast, unconcerned of idle talk and condemning eyes. As her light blue robe scrapes the concrete, she breathes in the pine-scented air and grins contentedly behind the privacy of tall hedges. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp Winner 2-19-16 |