On the way home from the grocery store, I stopped, just pulled over to the side of the road, to watch the lady passing on the other side.
It was cool for an Arizona Evening just coming into bloom. The same dust that leaves us sneezing all through the day does mystical things in the sky around sunset though so as I watched her walking by it was as if she traveled in another world: a world of pink and golden mists, wrapped in a deep lavender shroud.
This woman is a mystery, which sometimes I have sought to solve. This night, however, I only sought to drink in her presence with my eyes. I noted her old fashioned blouse with it's cascade of lacy ruffles and crisp white expanses; her skirt that I am not quite sure of: it is either reminicent of an early 1800's lady's walking skirt made of dark sturdy cloth with small white stripes, or it is in actual fact just such a skirt.
Her face was unseeable as it is always unseeable. Tonight her hair, which may or may not have been a wig, is in brunette ringlets. The lipstick is dark, gothic as they say; and much paint has been applied to countenance; that is clear, though the features are not.
For years now, we have traveled, on our occasions, to Tucson and back and for years we have seen this woman. Not everytime we traveled the road leading into the big city, but most of the times.
She has never been seen to wear the same outfit twice and there is no apparent logic to her wardrobe. An oufit may include those items that lend the look of a Can-Can girl yet be worn with sneakers and a baseball hat, for instance. There are only three true consistencies in regards to her appearance, that I can tell.
She is always alive with color, even when ensconsed in black, due to her accessories and the way her face is made up.
She is always on that same road.
She is always carrying a parasol or umbrella of some sort.
The woman's dress suggests an older woman, someone whose mind has wondered a little away, who has mixed up the decades under it's possession; though occasionally she hits it right on the mark and, instead, has a look that is fresh and young: a very good blend of eras.
Her carriage and poise are admirable; her stride is well timed, almost jaunty, but ultimately lady like. A lady on busness, meaning to achieve an end, but with enough time to be more leisurely in her pursuits.
No one that I have met to date knows who this woman is. Very few seem to have even noticed her. I know my father has as he asked me if I had noticed her; he was vaguely concerned that she might be a ghost.
He and I have discussed how we'd like to pull over to her side of the street, get out, approach her, and ask her questions: who she is; where she is coming from; and, where she is going to.
But she remains a mystery, in her right to privacy, in her imposed solitude under her umbrella. No one sees her face and as she strolls along she looks neither to the right or to the left but always straight ahead so that she sees not ours.
It gives me pause, quite literally on this day, but figuratively on many days. What is knowing? When a person asks "Do you know this woman?" how often is it true, the answer given?
Do I know the woman? I know her relative size, the tilt of her head, her look of pride, her sheltering parasol, and I know these external things regarding her better than I have known many people I have worked with. People I would have been expected to say "Yes, I know her." about.
Yet the woman remains a mystery, when it comes to motive, desires, excuses.. she is just there, alone, striding toward her unknowable future.
Perhaps we should stop and ask. But then, I know why we don't. If we asked, then we'd know more and thusly would we have to look elsewhere for wonderment.
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read more blogs!
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Blogs by HopelesslyHopeful:
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misschoos
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Nov 8 @ 2:09PM
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Kudos
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HopelesslyHopeful
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Nov 8 @ 2:48PM
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Thank you, as always, lovely Miss Choos
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ttomtarr
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Dec 13 @ 9:08PM
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Another kudo, better late than never.
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