She is the old women that lives at edge of the village. She lives alone yet is never lonely. She is a great and close friend to cats, dogs, birds, and all manor of woodland creatures. Young children are afraid of her. Teenagers mock her. Adults shun her. She is the crone, the hag, the harpy.
She is my best friend. To those she likes, she is quick with a touch, and a smile. She cooks the most wonderful stews, thick with meat, and full of unusual vegetables. She knows all my stories, and I hers. We can sit all day on her porch in silence, or stay up all night telling all sorts of tall tales. She can be bitter, but has no shame. She wears both a workman’s rough clothes, and the finest silk dresses with a quiet flair. She drinks coffee black, but tea with milk and sugar.
She has had many names. None of which I will tell you. I confess to not wanting to share her. But she has no time for owners, or rent seekers. She is often fierce to those who harm. Tender to the unfortunate. She reads old books voraciously, yet holds her opinions loosely. Her eyes are the color of wood smoke, and crinkly around the edges. She laughs out loud when nobody’s near.
She once had fame and fortune. A fashion model, dancer, and world traveler. Now she lives as if all of that were a dream. Not forgotten, but a life long left on the side of the road. She has had many passports, French, Algerian, American. Yet holds no allegiance to any nation.
She takes her time doing. Seldom undoing. Sleeps when she feels like it, but is usually awake before me. Stoking the fire, or baking scones filled with wild blackberries. These she cherishes and would eat every day. I have seen her dance as if she is the only one in the world to do so. She will politely accept help only if to refuse would create discord.
I know when it is time to leave. We never say goodbyes. I don’t come visit unless invited, and she rarely travels. We both know this is a magical pairing, a fragile living thing, and don’t speak directly about it. We just let it flow on.
She is my best friend. To those she likes, she is quick with a touch, and a smile. She cooks the most wonderful stews, thick with meat, and full of unusual vegetables. She knows all my stories, and I hers. We can sit all day on her porch in silence, or stay up all night telling all sorts of tall tales. She can be bitter, but has no shame. She wears both a workman’s rough clothes, and the finest silk dresses with a quiet flair. She drinks coffee black, but tea with milk and sugar.
She has had many names. None of which I will tell you. I confess to not wanting to share her. But she has no time for owners, or rent seekers. She is often fierce to those who harm. Tender to the unfortunate. She reads old books voraciously, yet holds her opinions loosely. Her eyes are the color of wood smoke, and crinkly around the edges. She laughs out loud when nobody’s near.
She once had fame and fortune. A fashion model, dancer, and world traveler. Now she lives as if all of that were a dream. Not forgotten, but a life long left on the side of the road. She has had many passports, French, Algerian, American. Yet holds no allegiance to any nation.
She takes her time doing. Seldom undoing. Sleeps when she feels like it, but is usually awake before me. Stoking the fire, or baking scones filled with wild blackberries. These she cherishes and would eat every day. I have seen her dance as if she is the only one in the world to do so. She will politely accept help only if to refuse would create discord.
I know when it is time to leave. We never say goodbyes. I don’t come visit unless invited, and she rarely travels. We both know this is a magical pairing, a fragile living thing, and don’t speak directly about it. We just let it flow on.