Reaching the Top
It took 72 years to reach the top. She never thought she could climb it. Living on the bottom taught her not to look that far up.
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| linocut on handmade paper |
Sunny and mild for a winter day, the sky was clear. The weatherman predicted snow storms. She put on her new wool gloves. She had been admiring them for a few
months. Yesterday when she walked
by the boutique and saw that they were no longer in the window, she went inside
and inquired. One pair left and
they would never go on sale. She
bought them.
Her new gloves went past her thin wrists, to her
forearms. Once on, she lifted them
to her nose and took a deep breath.
The walk to the top would take 60 minutes. That’s all she needed to reflect on her simple life. No big goals achieved, no big dreams
chased, no celebration for her birthday.
Simple and quiet she lived in a small town.
From that height, she noticed the river beneath. How the snow would cover everything,
make everything still and silent.
The wind picked up and the snowy paws of pines began to bow. She was glad the wool gloves kept
her elbows warm; waitressing all these years gave her all kinds of aches and
pains.
72 and she still couldn't retire. She worked every day since 17. Alone, she didn't have any children or spouse. When asked, she just said, those were the cards she was dealt. She was tired of explaining the truth. That in small towns, tragedies happen too. Not the kinds that you read in papers, the kinds that are too sad to report. The ones that can't be explained with reason.
At 72 she takes a whiff of her gloves, smells the fancy boutique perfume overpowering heavy kitchen grease, looks up at the sun and walks off the cliff.
©2015 Suzanne Coley
©2015 Suzanne Coley
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