She wore red. She didn’t hide.
I wore black. She found me anyway.
I gingerly knelt down
on one knee to look at the bottom shelf.
My hip hurt, just enough to be more than a little bit. I
thumbed through the library CD’s, hoping to find something the husband might
like to listen to on his commute to work.
She charged toward me before I could fully process her impending
approach. I saw grey. It was her hair flying, swinging back and
forth. I saw red. It was the flash of her pants, her legs
marching right and left. She flew past
me, barely pausing, preferring to deliver her confident declaration in fluid
motion. “Oh, honey” she said while
shaking her head. “Why don’t you pull a
chair on over and sit on it while you look through those CD’s! You’ll be so much more comfortable.”
I muttered, weakly, politely, “Oh, I’m ok. I’m only going to be a minute.”
“Wait, do I know you?”
my head silently muttered, trying to understand. Why did she think I needed a chair? Did she
see the weak parts? Did she see the
fragile?
I went to check out my rock star biography book and the CD’s
I had picked out for the husband. She
was next to me, checking her books out. I
said hello. Her head turned to face
me. Her grey, shoulder length hair swung
from side to side again. My own post
chemo, short, grey curls sat silent and motionless under my plain black hat.
The cranky in me couldn’t let it go. “Why did you think I needed a chair?”
She opened her mouth and
poetic wisdom flew out. There were no
bonus points for bravery, she said. There was no prize at the end of the day for
stubbornness. No one was keeping
track. These things, she said to me,
while scanning her books into the system.
“Besides, I saw you wince when you knelt down.” she finally
offered.
“Do I know you?” the
inside of my head pondered, trying to envision if and where I had seen her before.
Her red pants forced
me to stare at her. Her red shoes stood out
parked next to my black boots. Her red
leather backpack told me I wanted one just like it.
She spoke like she was anointed by confidence. She spoke like one destined to speak for the
rest of us. She’d been around a long
time. She saw the obvious, she
said. It takes a long time to heal your
body. But the brain
is harder, she said, shaking a finger at me.
She said, trust me.
I know.
I’ve been there.
“Well, whatever is wrong, I hope you heal quickly. And next time, get a chair!” she said to me,
as she swept her way out the door.
My head wanted to scream after she left. “Do I know you?” My mouth managed a weak and perplexed thank
you.
She was gone.
I followed her out the
door. She was fast and quickly made it
to her car.
I followed her in my black clothes, full of my bad attitude and
self pity. I followed her with my gimpy
hip and stodgy, dull, post chemo, boring, terrible, old lady,
demoralizing hair. I followed her to her red car, parked 3 spots down
from mine.
She zipped away in her little car. All I saw was a
flash of red.
I was 46. She was 74-ish. But she was so much younger than me. She was so much smarter than me. And maybe, probably, she was more resilient than
me.
And as I drove away in my black sedan, I was sure of three
things. One-I was determined to never,
ever need to pull up a chair to look at the library CD’s. Two-I couldn’t wait until my grey hair grew
long enough to swing like hers did. And
three-I was for sure gonna get me a pair of nice red pants.
1 comment:
This is a good one. Red says so much, doesn't it?
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