Profile of a stranger…
She’s wringing out the dishtowel, though it’s not wet anymore. That doesn’t stop her from gripping the sides of it and curling it up, becoming more and more insistent on getting water to pour out of it, but none comes.
“Do you think it’s wrong of me to keep the shed up?” she asks, not really expecting a response. Instead she squeezes the rag until her knuckles are bright red and her face tightens. Her lips are pursed and her eyes are spread far apart. She is framed by two windows that look out onto the shed and the overgrown yard.
A child’s pail, shovel, and a bike are strewn amongst the weeds. They look antiquated as if they serve the scene of overgrowth and apathy. She leans up against the counter, throws the dishtowel into the sink and surveys the kitchen.
“You look terribly grown up,” she says contorting her face into a smile.
She takes a deep breath. “Like an adult or something, you’ll always be a child in your parents minds of course.” The last part of her sentence tortures her, but she inflicts the pain intentionally, like a child pushing on a bruise. However, a comment like that can hardly be left hanging there so she starts around the kitchen, tidying up little sections of it.
There are at least six vases in the cramped space, all filled with rotting bouquets, she pulls out the flower remnants and tosses them into a compost pile under the sink. She starts to pour the moldy water down the drain.
I stand to help, but she dismisses me. “You want a drink?” she asks. I decline. “Nonsense,” she says, walking into the attached laundry room and grabbing a can of soda. She puts it down on the kitchen table and leans towards the freezer; she puts an ice tray next to the soda and a glass next to the ice tray. She leans down to the table to break the ice out of its compartment and her face is parallel to mine, right next to mine. For the first time I really look at her.
She has dark lines under her eyes, a testament to her lack of sleep. Her face is scattered with wrinkles, her cheeks, her chin, and her brow. Her whispy brown hair is messy and loosely tied. A long locket falls from her neck with the initials M.A.S engraved in tight but curly letters: Maggie Ann Sage or maybe it’s Margaret.
Her neck is long and picturesque much like the rest of her body; her posture used to make her look as if she were perpetually posing for a renaissance painting. Now her body slouches and her back is never straight; despite all of this you can tell that she used to be beautiful.
Her jeans are covered in paint and she is wearing a man’s button down shirt that swallows her frame. I heard from a friend that Maggie has started to wear both her sons’ shirts despite urging from friends that she give them all away.
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