Walking

A woman, quite ordinary, maybe by some’s standards pretty and, by some who know her, beautiful while by others maybe childish or odd, was strolling daily in a manner that offered no hurriedness and yet, with a focus and attention to her steps and, mostly, to her surroundings, in a city unfamiliar to her. She was yet again in a new town, in a new vibe, in a new everything, though really on the surface. It was nearly the same in all its essentials. 

Except for the excessive number of various remarks, gestures, looks, and intentions exhibited by the passing men on her daily, unhurried, mile-long walk. In a span of 30 minutes or so, the range or the spectrum of emotions and subtle walking speed fluctuations would cover a broad array, all sensed steps away from the approaching body.

It was quite a study on her behalf to be witness to all the strata of the male species in just a few steps. It was also quite an unwanted confirmation that safety and luxurious ease were not the foreground experience.  It would definitely be easier to live among joyful flowers than among unconscious desire, drunkenness, and prejudice. 

The above walks did not exclude the non-occasional, even more animated demonstration of the inner monologue coming from the fairer sex - contradiction obviously noted - not toward her, but more as a general expression. She was just the receiver of the sweetness or utter disregard for basic consideration and decency for the other simply by being in the vicinity. 

When will the walk among humans become like a walk akin to that among swaying and singing fields of flowers?

Down South

“Do you think it is full?” The woman with a corrugated skin for a face addressed me.

She had that skinny, dehydrated body with a raspy voice that long-time cigarette smoke inhalers have.

You could tell she is an open book and an eager kindness, the one that you can’t help but respond to favorably.

Her husband happened to be a mix of contradictions, mostly of the repulsive kind. 

Next, an unlit cigarette sticking out of his mouth, the man reversed his car for me to cross the street. There was no additional emotion or acknowledgement of his accommodating gesture other than a brief eye contact.

The heavyset woman in a wheelchair, dressed in all flowers, was adamantly discussing something I chose not to eavesdrop, as I continued on my search for a tea kettle, which I couldn’t find in the jewelry store tended to by an anorexic-looking, tattooed and pierced woman whose spine was curved inward and downward, as if she was trying to hide into herself. Or maybe her world was too weighty for her to carry. She couldn’t have been more than 45 years old.

“Hello, baby!” “Hey, baby girl!” Nothing special in these greetings, just a standard choice of words extended to strangers. It functions as an immediate acceptance into the heart of the one bestowing the sounds, just as it disarms the unsuspecting ear of mine. It makes me giggle and throw out a figurative hug fueled by my heart’s joy.