In memoriam

Unsung but not unnoticed; talked about but never spoken to; you lived on the rim of my childhood, and when you died, people noted your absence, but not immediately.

You were other, alien, not quite human. You were too different even to threaten a fate I and other children tempted when misbehaving.

I haven't thought about you for years. But in those years you have become a woman with a story, and I have become curious.

How did you choose your route when you pushed your battered pram through the town? (And what was in those tattered carrier bags it held?) Were you taking the path of least resistance; one that allowed you a bench to sit on undisturbed in the morning sun, and a wall on which to lean and catch your breath without inciting the fury of a fastidious shopkeeper? Or did you trace over and over the last walk you took with your sweetheart before he left for France?

I can't remember your face, but one evening in the bus station, I watched your hands brushing invisible crumbs from the front of your filthy gaberdine. Your fingers whisked against the navy fabric. They were nut brown and engrimed with dirt. They were long and they were shockingly elegant. They didn't deign to pick up the coin I left for you.