Rita

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June 29, 2012 by Dropped Ink

My people watching this week actually is a carry over from one of my many old ladies that come into the mall. Now this one in particular works next door to me and let just say it is very obvious that “Rita” (thats what her name will be in my musing/story) was a pistol in her younger days and quite honestly she remains so. She is spry and takes absolutely no mess…..none! Throughout the day I would see her come in and jot things down on pieces of paper and shove them into her apron. I would wonder and speculate what exactly she was writing about. I found out today.

Here my story begins,

The sun has a funny way about it. It can burn you then turn around and wake you up in the best mood. I laid there and watched the light creep across the wall. Fascinating. Come on Rita…come on….your awake so God wants you here another day.

Rita slowly swings her legs from beneath the covers. The gold and oranges from her curtains bath her room in a soft glow as if the sun whispered quietly into her room beckoning her to wake. She stood to her full size a whopping 4″8 and shrinking, 86 years was a long time to walk the earth not to mention a lot of mornings to wake up. Rita stretched to the left then the right followed by a strong toe touch.

“Still got it. Means I’m alive.”

Living alone had not dulled her voice or love of conversation even if it is one sided. She fusses about her morning routine finally ending it not with what would not seem typical of a woman her age.Taking great care Tina lays the napkin, spoon and journal on her small kitchen table. Setting the coffee pot down on the warming plate she picks up the creamer that looks like the little farm boy who has decided to introduce the newest in white washing methods. Rita chuckles to herself but quiets quickly because it is time to get down to serious business.  She taps the head of the pen to her tongue and gently flips her journal open. Inside are rumpled pieces of paper held to the flap by a ladybug paper clip. Rita reads the words out loud.

“Drifting into the philosophy of the abyss I lay on my back and choose not to wonder but imagine how mundane life would be without the blue color of the sky.”

Rita leans her head back in thought. Her small eyes pop open and she takes a sip of her coffee.

“I don’t think this one will make it into the journal today. Maybe tomorrow or next week I’ll feel differently about philosophy.”

She refreshes her coffee and gives it another white wash before reviewing the next note.

“My heart dances with the memories of yesterday”

Her head leans back once more and her eyes stay closed a little longer then before. A broad smile spreads across her face.

“This one goes in.”

She creases the page in her book and begins to write. The refrigerator quietly hums and the clock ticks as if it is tiptoeing around the face of the clock. Rita finally looks up pleased with herself, her face beams at the words neatly written across the pages. She reads them to the room, the white wash farm boy, the silence.

“My heart dances with the memories of yesterday. Because the memories of today to often fade away. Perhaps they fade because they are not worthy of the company of my brain. Or they fade just to make me feel and look old and insane. Perhaps the memories are not memories but fleeting thoughts of things that are mundane. I loved once, then twice, then one more time for good measure. Three was my favorite because he liked to dance.  Sexy, hot, our bodies moved with the night. Two liked to sit by the fire drinking wine holding hands, kissing my neck. One, well he was my first. So easy to love so hard to mourn. My heart dances with memories of yesterday.”

Rita read the words once more before closing her journal. She stood herself up and quietly cleared the table.Taking the journal she tucks it snugly between the pepper and the salt.

“Well, work is waiting and I prefer not too. So out the door I go. ”

With that she picked up her purse and car keys and walked out.

My little old lady I found out was writing her thoughts and feelings on the many pieces of paper I would see her shove in her apron throughout the course of the day.  So I imagined what she does with them at home. Just a little something that was rolling about in my melon.

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