Lady Teal

Lady Teal

J.M.Rogers

The wind slides lazily through the car window as I listen to the palmetto leaves slap against one another. They dot the landscape as far as the eye can see,  jutting out from the ground like the tops of submerged palms. I wave to them absently, their fronds bobbing back and forth down the eternal line. They appear to wave back, but it is hard to know the intentions of plants. 

A small woman, elderly and brightly dressed, makes her way down the sidewalk, clipping the tip of every palmetto fan with an outstretched left hand. She is playing in her own mind, the lines of her face turned upward in that cheerful abandon you often find in old women who reside in beachfront bungalows. She works her legs quickly, propelling her thick arms and generous belly ever southward. It seems fitting to her frame; the weight, as if she has somehow found physical perfection by abandoning her own vanity. She takes comfort in her walking, her posture projecting the dogged determination of a child starting up a steep hill. She has the look of a champion greeting conflict. They are old friends.

Covering her upper half is a teal windbreaker with a large sequined dolphin on the chest. The loudness of the jacket is tempered by the woman's palpable levity, and for the first time in a very long time, I feel the sudden need to embrace someone. It reminds me of all the hugs that I have missed, of all the hugs I will never have. 

Still, I am happy. Because she is.