Window
by Jane Hammons
Where she came from kachinas, baskets, pottery and tiny totem poles filled windows.
There people told her she needed change. She cut her hair. Got facials. Massaged. Manicured. Weight lost and gained. It was that finally, the weight, the gain and loss of it, that sent her to the bus station where she'd bought a ticket to here where she knew nothing of anyone. No one anything of her.
She filled the empty stroller from Goodwill with what it might have held: blankets, animals, things babies suck and chew on.
Here when she pushed it down the street they did not know what might have been when they peeked in then looked away. The emptiness signified nothing. Maybe something.
Whenever she stopped at the window to fuss, adjust the blankets, rattle the keys, tuck the bunny dog and bear tighter together, the woman inside came out and made her offering. A paper bird. A feather with eyes. A Buddha candle fabric blue and white incense burner tea cup tea.
When she was ready, she left the stroller near the tracks, returned to the window, lit the lanterns strung on string, bowed before the gods unknown, opened up the little drawer and crawled inside.
There people told her she needed change. She cut her hair. Got facials. Massaged. Manicured. Weight lost and gained. It was that finally, the weight, the gain and loss of it, that sent her to the bus station where she'd bought a ticket to here where she knew nothing of anyone. No one anything of her.
She filled the empty stroller from Goodwill with what it might have held: blankets, animals, things babies suck and chew on.
Here when she pushed it down the street they did not know what might have been when they peeked in then looked away. The emptiness signified nothing. Maybe something.
Whenever she stopped at the window to fuss, adjust the blankets, rattle the keys, tuck the bunny dog and bear tighter together, the woman inside came out and made her offering. A paper bird. A feather with eyes. A Buddha candle fabric blue and white incense burner tea cup tea.
When she was ready, she left the stroller near the tracks, returned to the window, lit the lanterns strung on string, bowed before the gods unknown, opened up the little drawer and crawled inside.
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Author's Note
I wrote this when the very kind E Victoria Flynn asked me to contribute a piece of flash fiction to Roadside Attractions at her blog V's Place.
Other stories by Jane Hammons
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Woderful piece Jane. I like the sentence variation. The lists are full of tactile images. Enjoyed.
Thanks so much, Roberto
I can't say "Perfect" often enough or with the proper accent and tone to pay it sufficient homage, but it is.
star
Thanks, JLD. I can't say often enough--Thanks.
This story tells of so much sadness in just a few paragraphs. Love the woman who comes out to make offerings. Fantastic ending. star
Whimsical and wonderful vignette, Jane.*
Very straight ahead, Jane - "She filled the empty stroller from Goodwill with what it might have held: blankets, animals, things babies suck and chew on."
The piece hits the mark. No misses. No waste. Big like. *
Fave, Excellent piece.
Love this piece, Jane *
Thanks, good people, for your reads and comments.
Beautiful work.
Such a simple piece about a big topic, the tone is so good.
*
Susan and Gary--thank you for your comments and faves.
There was singing, quiet singing, in the words, the meter, ebb and flow of this. I quite enjoyed the sensation.
Wonderful. *
Thanks, Beate and Mark, for reading Window.
There's a quiet tragedy to this. Your control of language is superb. Everyone else said everything else. I concur.
The lists so powerful here. WHat is carried, what is left behind. Peace *
Rich, powerful imagery.
Gita, Linda, Jeffrey--Thanks so much. I've been buried in student essays and it was wonderful to find your comments here.