An old woman sits on the side of the road in the July world. The sun is so close you can see her take a breath, hear her hum. The sky is cloudless (they’ve all gone on holiday) – and the tarmac can’t stay put anymore. The mothers turn their backs to the iceboxes and all the tarmac children erupt and dart off in a million directions.
An old woman sits on the side of the road in the July world, the sun close by, attentive, the sky barren and the tarmac meltingly mischievous.
And as she sits, the passerbys stop and some get out of their cars – mums in never navys and fathers in powdered please-pinks. CURIOUS CHILD DASHING LIKE THE BEE, the guineapig, the dog, and all emerge out of the car, moving like molasses on an incline –
Some stay inside and gently shout from a window wound down enough to show face and neck but never shirt. Some enter the scene and others only observe but they all ask –
‘Are you okay?’
She’s waiting. her skin in all of it’s crevices, in it’s folds, in it’s canyons of years, her excess, her blue backed snakes under the brown saran wrap skin had she erected colosseums of ‘the wait’.
Her hair stood stiff and still, the only young part of her – every hairspray soaked hair follicle stood waiting and her –
Her smile was reserved. All she revealed were tightly pursed lips. She was holding words, ideas, revolutions, liberations back and her eyes closed – she was saving the passion, the tenderness, the love of the world.
Nobody asked what she was waiting for but it wouldn’t matter. Under an August moon she would still wait.