Sunday, September 23, 2012
How We Do It, Part XVI in a series
I pushed Sophie in her wheelchair through the heat of Sunday morning, determined to exercise, to go for a walk. She had been humming all morning, perhaps a stomach ache from the drugs, maybe not, because we never really know -- anything at all. A dress shirt lay crumpled at the curb and while it might have fallen out of a parked car or perhaps been dropped by an Orthodox Jewish woman carrying her husband's clothes to the dry cleaner, I chose to believe that it had been ripped off the man who wore it in the early hours of the morning by a woman, perhaps, who couldn't wait any longer. After dinner and a late movie, something dark and intense (depressing to some), she looked out the window on the ride home, and when he put his hand on her shoulder, his fingers lay on her neck and it was just enough that when he stopped the car at the curb and reached for her, she began to unbutton his shirt and then started laughing when he said, Wait, so she stopped and he got out of the car and made his way to her side, opened the door gallantly and gave her his hand as she continued to laugh. His shirt was falling off his shoulders, and she pulled it off, dropped it there by the car door, and he pulled her toward the house. Sophie stopped humming when I picked up the pace, the sun beat down, yellow flowers speckled red appeared, her pale hand brushed against a prickly hedge and sweat ran down my back. We never really know -- anything at all.
Posted by Elizabeth at 2:00 PM
Labels: How We Do It, musing, Sophie, walking, writing
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You just keep knocking me to the floor with these. Amazing, each and every one.ReplyDelete
Damn, you're a kick ass writer, Elizabeth. Just. . . damn.ReplyDelete
P.S. the "How we do it" ones are my absolute, hands down favorites. So raw, so everything.
I always wonder about other people's lives. We think we know but we don't. I just started reading a book "The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry". I just read a passage about Harold meeting a man whom he made assumptions about and of course they were all wrong. And yet still I do it. Making assumptions that is.ReplyDelete
Oh, Elizabeth these "How we do it" posts are just stunning. To a one.ReplyDelete
(So this post is making it into my monthly round up of "What I Loved on OTHER People's Blogs" at the end of September - I'll notify you when it's up.)
Thanks, Varda -- that means so much to me given what a fine writer you are!Delete
A poet's heart, definitely!ReplyDelete
Why don't I come up with something so sensual and romantic when I see stuff on the curb? We never really know anything, but perhaps it's how we look at what we do know and see that is the important thing.ReplyDelete
We never really do know anything at all, yet your guesses are so enchanting, I happily accept them as fact.ReplyDelete
I recently reread The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers...your writing reminds me of her...thank you for sharing your heart with us...I'm so glad I found you.ReplyDelete
the writing. oh my.
This is just some terrific writing. Really most excellent writing.ReplyDelete
Love it! I wonder what Sophie's story was...ReplyDelete
you take us places .... thanks!ReplyDelete
I am stunned by your ability in writing. You take me with you and I hunger for more.ReplyDelete
So much love here already. I will merely add to it.ReplyDelete
Sadly, the shirts on my street are the ones I forgot to take off the roof of my car before I drove down off.