The old woman sat in the rocking chair, looking out onto the sunlit street. It was just about the time for the children to pass by, on their way home from school. She loved watching the children pass by, the girls chatting and giggling with each other, the boys running and playing.
There was one little girl that always caught her attention as she walked by. She never walked with the other children and she always had a far away look, like she was dreaming of being someone else or just being somewhere else.
That particular day, the girl happened to notice the old woman watching her. The old woman motioned to the girl to come in. Somehow, instinctively, the girl knew that the old woman posed no threat.
The little girl sat across from the old woman in the rocking chair. After a brief exchange of hello's, the old woman asked the girl a curious question.
"How come you're always by yourself? How come you never walk with the other children?" the old woman asked of the little girl.
"I have nothing in common with them. The girls act so silly, laughing and flirting around with the boys. And since I'm not pretty like they are, the boys don't want to talk to me", she replied honestly. "Do you have any children?"
"No, I don't. I never married" the old woman answered back, just as honest.
"Why not?" the girl asked.
"Well, it's not that I haven't loved. I have", replied the old woman. Staring down at her age worn hands, she continued. "Maybe too much. Maybe I loved so much, they didn't know how to love back or they were frightened by being loved that much", was the old woman's response.
The little girl stared down at her short, stubby fingers. "I understand. I want the other kids to like me. But I can't be something I'm not. I can't pretend just so they will like me", the girl said with a wisdom and maturity beyond her years.
"I know how you feel. And I thank you" the woman replied.
And the girl left.
Later that day, the old woman got up from her rocking chair. As she passed by a mirror, she looked at the reflection.
Staring back at her was the little girl.
Written by Katherine M. Parisse
Copyrighted � 2004 Katherine M. Parisse |
