By Maryanna Gabriel
There is an older woman with shoulder length white hair who walks up and down Rainbow Road. I see her often. She is well dressed and looks like an interesting person. The thing is, she is bent forward from her waist hunched over in a permanent crook.
Today as I stopped at my mail box, she passed me.
"Your back must hurt," I said wanting to get to know her better. In her hand was a sheaf of fall leaves. Her intelligent blue eyes shone seemed luminous.
"It does," she replied.
"I hurt my back and I take something for it. You can get it at the local pharmacy."
She had no idea which pharmacy and was sure she was on Vargas Island, which let me tell you, is a long way from here. Oh dear. This conversation was going sideways. I wrote the name down on a piece of paper along with the location of the gentlest chiropractor I know.
It was as though I had handed her a mysteriously valuable piece of information if she only knew what it was for. Alzheimer's. For sure. I spoke as calmly and as reassuringly as I could. She refused an offer of a ride as she wrapped my missive carefully around her leaves saying she would study it and get in touch with me about it.
Sometimes I worry this will be me in the future, my back not healed, my hair snow white, bent over in pain, as meaningless bits of my manuscript float about my head, like some incomprehensible Dead Sea scroll.
I hope the angels are looking after her. They are so busy these days.
