PICKING UP THE STITCHES
(Page 1)
There was nothing remarkable about the old house as you approached it from the river - as people had done for as long as it had stood. It looked run down and shabby, years of neglect and the ravages of time had left their mark. The yard now seemed as though no one had tended it in years. Weeds grew in clumps, no flowers had bloomed there since - well nobody remembered when. Sunlight bathed the scene, giving a golden haze it didn't
seem to deserve. If you listened, you'd hear the crickets and other insects buzzing, flies and the like. You could only hear Nature's sound here, nothing to connect this place on earth with a town or city, except the river, where it came from, where it was going to.
A few lizards rested in the shade, one or two birds circled in the air, almost as if waiting for permission to land. Walking round the twin trees you could see both the front and one side of the house, one side in shadow. As you got closer, you made out what looked like a figure, gently rocking back and forth in a chair, on the porch. closer still and you saw it was an old lady, hair white as silk, and a face tanned a rich golden brown by contrast. Her
eyes are closed, her mouth slightly open, as if in her sleep and snoring. On her lap lies some uncompleted knitting. A ball of yarn lies on the floor, perhaps having fallen as she fell asleep. You try to see what she's been knitting, but it is partly covered by her arms and hands, and the rest, perhaps half is bunched up. There seems to be much colour in the work.
You gaze at the surroundings, turning and moving quietly lest you wake her. Open as the place seems, you feel as though you were intruding on some hallowed land, on her privacy. Yet, as you look back at that peaceful scene, you know that the object of your visit, sitting in her rocker, is in some ways, a legend in her own time.
You try to guess her age from her looks, but this is hopeless. she looks no more than seventy or seventy-five, yet, if your information is right, she is over ninety-five, and some say already one hundred.
A fly hovers over her face, and then shoots away, almost as though it was told not to alight on this important person. Perhaps that noise, or the rustling of leaves in the nearby trees disturbs her. Her eyes open and you gasp with astonishment at how beautiful they are, a sort of translucent blue that seem to mirror everything in sight.
They are warm and comforting, yet have a distant quality about them. They are unlike any you have ever seen on another human being - more in keeping with a porcelain doll.
"Hello" she calls out, "Come closer so I can see you". The voice. soft, musical, belongs to a younger person you think. This voice has warmth, and confidence. It is the voice of one who is at peace with herself, who lives not in regret or remorse, but in love and contentment.
You feel drawn to her by a magnet, you glide or float as if on a cloud, feet off the ground. You stop six feet from her and smile, not intentionally as one would perhaps graciously, but more at some sight, instantly pleasurable, like the grin on a young baby.
"I don't have many visitors these days. Few people live around here anymore and the supply boat only comes four times a year. I know when they are due, but I think I also knew you were coming. Why not come and sit by me, it's warm out there and more comfortable here on the porch".
You respond to her friendliness and charm. As you sit down, you see her looking at you, as though she can read your mind. You wonder though what she sees, as the person you appear to be, or as an inquisitive child. You realise, you could never hide your thoughts from her, she is far too perceptive. Those eyes of hers, though mirrors of her own soul, seem to see right through to your core. This would normally be disarming, yet with her, you feel a kind of sanctity, and a way of relief as she says,
"You mustn't mind me looking at you, you know. I see so few faces now, each one becomes quite special. When I was young, I think I missed so much. you know, faces talk, sometimes so much better than words can convey. I've learnt much more about life from studying faces than reading books, maybe as I didn't learn to read or write till I was about twenty-three - no call for the 3 Rs in my youth you know. So now, let me tell you what I believe you are thinking right now, but first, have a glass of lemonade".
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