My neighbour is on her balcony shaking out blankets.
It's nearing Easter and her family is coming to visit.
She stands motionless for a moment to watch the blossom being snatched by sudden gusts, then settling as a skittering of ivory snow.

It's always blustery at this time of year,
that's Nature's way of getting rid of rotten fruit.

She drapes the blankets over the balustrade, then secures them with wooden clothes pegs.
That's when I wave to her.

Usually, the cleaner comes in, but today she wants to do it herself,
to prove that she still can. It's a small thing that makes her happy.

She says there's not enough time left to be bored. So twice a week, she drives into town
to meet for coffee with other people like herself.
Her car is very reliable. She remembers her husband telling her to get things checked
before there was a chance of developing anything faulty.
He died last year, but life has to go on – for her own sake.

In this country, when a partner passes away, the one that's left behind wears black -
that's why she wears her pink dress -
just to let them know she has a mind of her own.

She loves her life here, but misses her grandchildren growing up -
that's why they come.

Last year, one of the boys told her she'd shrunk! But it was he who'd shot up like a flowering
pea, putting out tendrils to test an adult world.

When solitude becomes too much for her, she comes round.
“You could die in your sleep here,” she tells me
“and no one would find you for weeks. When they eventually did, they'd carry you off in a pretense of black to a place where everyone's forgotten.”

That's why today, she's shaking off her blankets.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2013