I saw an old woman last night wearing a loose shift in the lobby of my daughter’s condo building. She was tiny in every direction; her arms the size of my wrists, her head as tall as my chin. She must’ve been pushing 80, both in years and in pounds. Her skin was ivory white under the florescent lights, translucent almost, like it was the color of her bones leaching through and not so much the color of skin at all. Like she was turning inside out. Transforming in her skin cocoon in front of my eyes.
Why are we captured by some people? What is it about a glance at an atrophied arm somehow strong as steel and graceful as snow that enthralls us? Why that lady with her short, short hair and almond eyes the same deep black as the iron rail where she rested her hand?
I wanted to stroke her skin to see if it was as soft as it appeared, like satin draped over her frame. I looked at my own skin, firm and fleshy, swollen like ripe fruit, freckled with proof of the sun; tougher than hers, but only superficially; new leather that hasn’t had time to fully transition from raw hide to supple luxury.
I wondered if she knows she’s beautiful. Not “beautiful for an old lady” or “beautiful in her own way” or “beautiful in the eye of the beholder.” Just objectively lovely, a crone pixie queen.
I wondered if she was kind. I wondered if she was cruel. I wondered what she knows now that she didn’t when she was young. I wondered what she’d do over. I wondered what she’d never do again. I wondered who her lovers were and about her moments of great passion and crippling grief. I wondered if she’s learned to love others and herself well.
I wasted my day yesterday. I spent time mindlessly doing things that didn’t need to be done and failing to do the things that did. Self flaggelation and shame had no effect. I berated myself and was still unproductive. Measuring my self-worth by the things I DO and not who I am, you say? Why, yes; yes, that’s it exactly.
I saw the woman after I tried to get some work done. It was after 7pm, and I was tired of myself, so I’d gone outside to sit by the pool to feel the wind and see the sky to try to write. I made it through a sentence or two about wishing for wings that work and wanting to fly free. I made it a sentence or two about the oddity of being a creature born to fly who must use the earth to launch and land. I made it a sentence or two, trying to somehow capture the sense of what it’s like to long for more time in the air with a simultaneous gratitude for and resentment of the muddy patch in which I stand.
It started to rain.
Then it poured.
Sheets of water on the patio and through the trees and on me with my noble, wistful, drama-laden words.
Two sentences in, and I retreated under a slip of roofline that didn’t quite protect me from the rain, taking cover like the rest of the flying creatures when the weather doesn’t cooperate with our grand plans.
I read a novel.
I drank a beer.
I waited for the rain to abate, and then I packed up and went inside where I saw and old woman wearing a loose shift in the lobby of my daughter’s condo building.