Missed
She lived up the block. I lived down the block. We both lived on the Unknown Street of the well-known city, but – what it seemed – far away from the Earth, we unknowingly thought. Supposedly, she knew me, but I did not know her. Supposedly, she paid attention, I did not.
One day she rang my door bell and asked me could she remind me of something? She said that in a plastic manner of a person with the artificial politeness. She didn’t want to be polite, but acted it out, anyway.
I said that she was a stranger, and that we didn’t have a common history. And that she didn’t have anything to remind me of.
She said that I was seriously wrong, and that my memory didn’t serve me well.
I said, or I think I have said, that she was deadly wrong, and that her memory was not wrong, but nonexistent!
She got very angry and kicked the door, appropriately, right at the kick-plate, where people normally, and by accident kick the doors – at the kick-plates! After that she left my front porch.
I looked after her, confused.
Gee, some annoying people live around here …!
“You are my former husband!” she said, accusingly, over her shoulder. Then – turning around below on the street, looking straight at me, she said again that I was her former husband. She also said that I have fathered four kids with her.
I told her that she was crazy and delusional all the way up to the Cloud-9. She smirked at me, telling me that she will eventually prove it to me. When I asked – prove – what? She said, “the fatherhood!”
This is the only time when I really had a good look at her.
She was not a beauty designed by a special order. Nor she was unattractive, neglected as the homeless women tend to be. She was in a medium category of the unknown and undefined.
She could have been Scandinavian, and then she could have been Polish, even Russian; even Serbian or Bulgarian. Come to think of it, she could have been Chinese or Mongolian; even Burmese who lived here and around for many years; getting the hold of the American English; and getting the healthy frosted American skin. I’m not sure about the eyes – but the skin was/is most definitely American.
Gee, I’ve been around the block – so to speak – but couldn’t/cannot figure this one out.
Am I still walking “around the block” and trying to remember if I had, at one point been around the Globe? Say in Scandinavia, Poland, Russia, Serbia, Bulgaria, China, and Burma? Couldn’t remember any trips there in those parts of the world. I checked my personal Diary from the page one (1) through the page three hundred and one (301). There was not a single note about imported new brides.
Then – I got a private moment in my private bathroom. While in there, I checked my self thoroughly. I noticed my grey, grey hair. A question hit me hard: Do I remember when the last time I had totally black, black hair?
Again – I checked my Journal/Diary from the page one (1) to the last (presently and temporary) page three hundred and one (301). There were no notes about losing my black hair to the grey. In conclusion, I just don’t pay enough attention to certain things. My journal is too selective. I came to the conclusion inadvertently that I didn’t want to live in the past, like this woman.
It was Saturday afternoon. The young clouds were playful up in the sky. They reminded me of the humans, being in a cheerful mood. This strange lady came by. Again she rang my door bell. I hesitantly opened it. Behind this lady were lined up two girls and two boys. They seemed to be hiding behind her. Somebody else came by and stood just alongside this strange woman – a balding, strong man! His biceps were bursting under his short sleeved shirt. The boys (11 and 14) were looking at him. The girls (16 and 17) were focused on their mother.
The strange woman said, looking at me, “I don’t want you to be my husband anymore! My other husband just came home and embraced all of us. I was losing my mind waiting for his release!”
Her husband stepped forward and said, “Thank you man, for taking care of my family while I was away!”
The kids looked at me with the wide open, convincing eyes. They also said in unison, “Thank you Dad!”
And the otherwise quiet and mysterious “wild” bunch just walked away from my porch.
My wife came out, one minute late, with a curious eye and ear. She asked me, “What is happening? Who were those strangers?”
“Oh, nothing and nobody. Just some lost tourists looking for their relatives; and by mistake they rang our bell”, I said.
Things like these do happen, and will happen when you least expect them; especially if you don’t make an entry of them in your Journal in advance.
Brownstone in… Lynn Seldon
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