The Woman

She walks down the road, carefully lifting and placing one foot in front of the other. Long blonde hair, once luxurious now streaked with silver and tarnish. Her lipstick is a vivid red slash against the paleness of her face. Sunglasses, square and dark obscure her eyes. The corner of a brown jacket slaps against her thigh in the wind. She leans forward as she moves, pushing against an unseen foe.

I sit, safe from the bite of the wind, in the car and watch as she moves past. Where is she going? What marvels, sorrows and joys have passed through her life? What tales could she tell if I were to ask?

Perhaps she is alone, a once loved husband lost through the mists of time. A love so grand, that once lost, could never be replaced? Is this a slow, lonely journey to the supermarket to purchase those small portions that speak of a solitary life?

How fondly does she look back on the special moments of her life - her first dance, her first kiss, the blush of a bride on that magical day?

Children of her own, and grandchildren. A house filled with love and joyous laughter. Treats must be bought, a dinner planned.

Man’s modern marvels, to celebrate our inventiveness – radio, television, a man on the moon.

Ah, what tales could she tell if I were to ask?