if this happened is not known.

by georgette

Concave chest rising, knuckles crunching, knees squealing, skin peeling, hair thinning. 

All the signs were there and yet she was a puppet of herself, unable to witness what others saw. In her her eyes her reflection in the mirror only showed glimmer and gleam, her skin a luminous luster. Nothing about disintegration, deterioration, or destitution. No, none of that at all.

Thus you can imagine her confusion when she heard the things they spoke of her. Whispers in the corridor, stolen glances, plastered smiles, and stern expressions shot from all directions. 

At first she pondered whether they were the ones carrying hidden burdens. Too stressed to smile, too weary to greet a nice old woman. She wondered if they were doing alright. 

In response to this behavior she grew bolder, voicing her concerns for others. They were in need of some cheering up and there was no time for meek niceties to teeter behind. She asked more direct questions and shared her thoughts. She made her compassion apparent. 

This seemed to elicit only stranger responses. Smiles in her direction grew increasingly contorted and a variety of undecipherable facial expressions began to pile in her mental closet of hung anxieties. Bewildered yet undeterred, she did not allow these inconsequential coincidences to faze her. She continued on without a doubt in her mind. She remained without an inkling of her own disposition.

Wherever she went crowds dispersed. Those who used to reach out to her no longer returned her calls. She found herself alone and lonelier than ever. More so she grew increasingly confused. Months went by and she found herself not having spoken a single word to a single person. She resigned herself to grow used to this life of solitude.

Despite these shortcomings she remained steadfast in her determination to enjoy herself. 

On one day, she found herself in the mood for some ice cream to lift her spirits. She turned into the neighborhood supermarket, pushing a trolley cart around with her favorite silver dress on. Exiting with a Wegman’s extra large vanilla ice cream tub under her arm, she sat on the deck chairs outside basking in the sun, savoring the creamy white. 

And there she sat, without a care, feet propped up, tub of ice cream dripping onto her lap. It was a glorious day and she felt the light fill her with strength. She raised her arms to the sky with palms outstretched, swaying her hips to the rhythms of the prayer that had been caught in her sleep the night before. She let her arms draw in the vastness of the sky into her frame. The sugar coursed through her veins as the breeze ballooned her dress around her waist. She loved dancing. It was no matter that she was alone. Other people in this world simply did not allow themselves to indulge in life the way she did. Jealousy must have ruled their minds. 

For she, she was truly alive. 

— 

To the homeless Asian woman living in the Prudential Center mall in Boston’s Back Bay, hair wild and jet black, wearing nothing but a scanty aluminum trash bag, bare chest weathering the unforgiving Bostonian seasons, I’ve seen you many times before. 

I’ve seen you at the register next to me in the Star Market grocery store, pushing a trolley cart with three extra large Wegman ice cream tubs on a wintery Tuesday afternoon. 

I’ve seen you standing outside in a trance on a windy day, waving your arms while you spoke  to the sky in prayer. You were possessed by something that you seemed to understand. 

I’ve seen you too many times cold, huddled, stooped on the sterile benches outside of the Wagamama restaurant, lost in a crowd of suits carrying gourmet grocery bags and Long Champ totes, barely giving you a second glance. 

Who are you? Where is your family? Where do you come from? How long have you been here? I still think of you.