Mrs. Witter, at first glance, was never what she seemed. She was like a machine that had been out dated for years.
Every afternoon, just before the sun hits the horizon she would step out onto her front porch. She would carry an empty sherry glass in one hand that looked as if it hadn�t been used before, and the other held a fan. She would wobble forward; taking cautious steps towards her squeaky old rocking chair, waving her fan rapidly like was keeping her balanced so that she wouldn�t fall over.
I would not be ten feet away peeking over the high fence that divided us, watching, waiting, seeing if she really was what everybody said she was. I was always told that she was very old and just needed to be left alone, and I never really understood why. To me she looked lonely above all else just rocking back and forth, fanning herself, swirling her sherry glass around in an effort to look as if she actually drank, but she would never do anything, say anything. I would want to wave and say hello, but I was afraid of what she might do if I actually disturbed her peace.
She had always lived alone, ever since I could remember. Years ago, I was told that she when her husband was alive they would sit out on the porch and they would read a book together, every afternoon as the sun went down. But when he died she just was just left to sit on her porch every afternoon, alone, waiting.
Mrs. Witter would sometimes have a book with her but it was never opened, it was just in case some nosy neighbour walked by. The book was thicker than any book I had ever seen, but it was always the same. She had glasses that hung around her neck, but never moved, never actually put on the ridge of her nose.
The minutes would pass by, unnoticed by anyone. The neighbours would come home from work, slamming their car doors with bang. I would turn and watch for a while but it was never anything different. The clicking of the shoes on the pavement, the uneasy glance over their shoulder trying to see whose eyes were watching their every move. The briefcase would be dropped to the front step, as the rustling of keys could be heard, before they quickly stepped inside away from the street. I believed Mrs. Witter would watch too but when I would turn back, she would still be in that daze of hers.
I would loosen my grip on the fence a couple of times, to relieve the pain in my hands that the fence was causing. It would creak loudly, but Mrs. Witter didn�t turn and look, she was still looking straight ahead. Maybe I was too far way to be heard, or she was just too old to turn and look.
Darkness would slowly creep up on us, but it didn�t look like she had noticed at all. Her chair would rock more, as if it wanted to be heard over the night animals that came out to say hello. The lights from the other houses would come on. Her porch light would flicker on, yet she had not moved from the chair. She would close her fan and place it in her lap but her sherry glass would still be moving, as if it were to show that she was still alive.
I would turn and look back at the house that was my childhood. And wander why there were no lights on, no television blazing while we sat in front with our TV dinners, why it looked empty from afar. The reasons were endless. But that all faded when my mother�s car pulled into the drive. She would shake her head in disappointment of me, as I was always found on the fence. I would have to hop down, but not before glancing at Mrs. Witter, that had disappeared out of sight.
