Continued from Part One
I spent more and more time in my room, thinking about the
bag woman’s last breaths. Each vibration rang in my ears over and over refusing
to let go. Her blood still soaked my skirt and had begun to dry up. It must
have been a month or more before I realized that I had not seen my neighbor or
his dog. His home stood in its place, but a new face sat at its entrance. She
had a sweet face with big, innocent eyes welled up with fear. I stopped in front of her and smiled. She
cowered back and disappeared into her room. On my way back, I left a loaf of
bread at her opening and went to my home. From the slit in my room, I watched
her warily step out, grab the loaf, and chow it down ravenously.
When she mentioned it had been a month since her arrival, on
a night when all was quiet, not a soul on this street. I recalled it had been a
month since the incident, the poor bag woman and how everyone hovered, watched,
collected around the scene. I recalled the car with its screeching tires, the
blue bumper, a face in its back seat as if a motion picture started to play in
my head. Suddenly, I leaped up and
announced that I knew of her father’s disappearance. The license plate number
of the blue Chevy remained imprinted
in my memory that I had ignored all this time.
I related the events of the night and gave her the number and details of
the car. She was on her feet in no time and the last I saw her was running out
into the other world.
to be continued...
I spent more and more time in my room, thinking about the
bag woman’s last breaths. Each vibration rang in my ears over and over refusing
to let go. Her blood still soaked my skirt and had begun to dry up. It must
have been a month or more before I realized that I had not seen my neighbor or
his dog. His home stood in its place, but a new face sat at its entrance. She
had a sweet face with big, innocent eyes welled up with fear. I stopped in front of her and smiled. She
cowered back and disappeared into her room. On my way back, I left a loaf of
bread at her opening and went to my home. From the slit in my room, I watched
her warily step out, grab the loaf, and chow it down ravenously.
In time I befriended her and learned that she was the
self-talking man’s daughter. Her search had begun a year ago in various
neighborhoods until she finally arrived here, but found her father’s home empty.
As soon as she found old photographs with their clean, smiling faces scattered
in a box in the corner she was exhilarated. She loitered around a while,
awaiting his return eventually moving in, hoping, anticipating, yearning then
despairing.
When she mentioned it had been a month since her arrival, on
a night when all was quiet, not a soul on this street. I recalled it had been a
month since the incident, the poor bag woman and how everyone hovered, watched,
collected around the scene. I recalled the car with its screeching tires, the
blue bumper, a face in its back seat as if a motion picture started to play in
my head. Suddenly, I leaped up and
announced that I knew of her father’s disappearance. The license plate number
of the blue Chevy remained imprinted
in my memory that I had ignored all this time.
I related the events of the night and gave her the number and details of
the car. She was on her feet in no time and the last I saw her was running out
into the other world.to be continued...
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