I'm drinking egg nog in the kitchen, thinking about the old woman whose snow I helped brush off of her car earlier today, and I am wondering if she is thinking of me.
I'm remembering how pretty she was when she looked up, how I hopped out of the car without my bible and asked if she would like some help. It was snowing gently and kindly, and the little brown birds were landing gracefully out of the soft gray sky, all in the same tree, and she asked me where I lived. I answered simply with, "I'm one of Jehovah's Witnesses," arms out, palms up, waiting, and she nodded, handing me her scraper with an understanding nod of yes, this is your job.
Her eyes were blue, but not bright, and I lean against the counter top, listening to the cartoon my little sisters are watching together. I'm wondering if the woman -- Mary, her name was, Mary Montgomery, or something with a movie-star ring to it -- made it to Fort Lupton safely. I am remembering the clean swift swipe of powder falling on asphalt, the little silences it made, and I wonder quite suddenly what Charlotte will look like when she is old enough for young people to get out of their cars to help her. I am wondering if her eyes will lose their color, like the moth in my dream.
And I remember, much later, when the egg nog is forgotten, the laughter in Martensen's voice in the marching band closet, when he said, "You were meant to grow old," as if a great number were simply not. I am wondering where they end up, those who do not wear hairnets in the snow and shuffle around their cars, and who are not excited to see their families in Fort Lupton for the holidays. I wonder of the grace with which they handle their wheelchairs, spinning above stagelights and snowflake decorations, like naughty children who drink their fathers' liquor and do not believe in Santa Clause.
And I don't think to see him old.
I half-jogged back to the car in skirt and snowy boots, astounded at my strength, as if I had never noticed it before. The snow was young, and had fallen easily from the roof and windows as I maneuvered the simple tool in my arms across the windshield with eager ease and alacrity, asking about her family and stealing quick glances at her eyes, surprised at their beauty and surprised at my youth, reminding myself to smile.
I'm remembering how pretty she was when she looked up, how I hopped out of the car without my bible and asked if she would like some help. It was snowing gently and kindly, and the little brown birds were landing gracefully out of the soft gray sky, all in the same tree, and she asked me where I lived. I answered simply with, "I'm one of Jehovah's Witnesses," arms out, palms up, waiting, and she nodded, handing me her scraper with an understanding nod of yes, this is your job.
Her eyes were blue, but not bright, and I lean against the counter top, listening to the cartoon my little sisters are watching together. I'm wondering if the woman -- Mary, her name was, Mary Montgomery, or something with a movie-star ring to it -- made it to Fort Lupton safely. I am remembering the clean swift swipe of powder falling on asphalt, the little silences it made, and I wonder quite suddenly what Charlotte will look like when she is old enough for young people to get out of their cars to help her. I am wondering if her eyes will lose their color, like the moth in my dream.
And I remember, much later, when the egg nog is forgotten, the laughter in Martensen's voice in the marching band closet, when he said, "You were meant to grow old," as if a great number were simply not. I am wondering where they end up, those who do not wear hairnets in the snow and shuffle around their cars, and who are not excited to see their families in Fort Lupton for the holidays. I wonder of the grace with which they handle their wheelchairs, spinning above stagelights and snowflake decorations, like naughty children who drink their fathers' liquor and do not believe in Santa Clause.
And I don't think to see him old.
I half-jogged back to the car in skirt and snowy boots, astounded at my strength, as if I had never noticed it before. The snow was young, and had fallen easily from the roof and windows as I maneuvered the simple tool in my arms across the windshield with eager ease and alacrity, asking about her family and stealing quick glances at her eyes, surprised at their beauty and surprised at my youth, reminding myself to smile.
