Saturday, March 26, 2011
She unscrew the cap from a milk carton, and pour a second cup into her favorite green mug. She heats it in the microwave before adding the shot of coffee into it to make a latte. Now that there is no expensive coffee breaks with cherished pals, she sighs happily with these homemade concoctions free of worrisome gossips and back talks.
But the days are long, in solitude.
The sun rises with the same brilliance pouring through the window. Her morning routine of rushing through the first hours in complete hapless frenzy ends at nine. Then she sits, waiting for the day to end, moving through pages of books she must read, to seek comfort, to live in a fantasy, to rest in the dreams of others who she will never meet.
Sometimes she sheds a few tears, in trying to reach out for a world that is suddenly moving too fast for her, like touching a cascading water fall in an attempt to catch a particular drop. She typically fails at it, sighs some more, and sometimes, a few more tears.
It isn't unusual that she will go out and meet people, who sees nothing beneath her bubbly exterior, and greet her with warm hugs and chatty company. She thaws for them, even for the moments right after their departure, but then the same lone rider always return, wrapping her in his cape of darkness.
Afternoons bring solace to her melancholy. The sun being ever brighter, the day ever warmer, and the world ever louder. Through the window the new neighbor from somewhere in Europe, perhaps Russia, perhaps Spain, or somewhere in between, would play the same cheery tunes on his piano accompanied by harmonica. At first she was irritated by its monotonous melody, but after a few days she fell in love with it and would swing lightly with the music as do the leaves in the afternoon breeze. Children would run past the narrow walkway just beneath the window, chirping in incomprehensible tones that nonetheless livens up even the slow moving snails and caterpillars. Grandmas and housewives return from their grocery runs chatting about fluctuating prices and the latest choice vegetables; then there is always that one family who starts the cooking real early, fragrance of the spices culminating in the air, dancing to the tunes of exotic beats, and inspiring even tired nostrils to go for a different dream of culinary delights.
By then, all seems softer, and the slowness and solitude suddenly just right, for day dreams, for wanderings of the mind, for even tears and laughs, or for no reasons at all.