Cinnamon.
Such a sweet scent, mixed in with the dust of the air, coating the floorboards, making them slick beneath my feet; I see her moving about the small space, her joints creaking louder then the wood she walks on.
She sways a little, moving to the sound of some musical hallucination only she can hear. I can’t help but watch; a soft smile pulls her lips, making the skin hanging loose from her face tighten up almost imperceptibly. Decades seem to melt from her when she is like this. Quiet, happy, far from everything that has etched the harsh lines into her once flawless skin.
She was beautiful. Photographs too numerous to count testify to this fact. But, it’s these subtle moments, when I can see the young girl in her emerge; that I can believe it was true.
She had strength.
Now each stair is an effort.
She had power.
Now her children fawn on her, making sure she eats.
She had a quick wit.
Now she dances on the edge of sanity, testing her balance.
She had youth.
Now…
Now she has experience.
A lifetime of them flow through her veins. When her eyes meet yours, there is a shine in them that belies her age. They look through you, not at you. Make you feel as if you have yet to really see anything. Make you think everything you know is misguided and oversimplified. They tell you…they tell you that you’ve not even begun.
But no one ever seems to speak to her. She is fragile, she is weak, she is…incapable. She is worthless. Nothing more then a figment that floats among the other ghosts of the attic.
And there are ghosts.
A dusty portrait leans against the far left wall. A sheet half covering the face of someone I have never met; a creepy prop from some grade “B” horror movie. A stack of ancient looking books sit on a shelf, words in languages I don’t comprehend sprawled along the spines. A dress dangles from a hook, hanging in anticipation of a dance it will never attend. Or maybe it remembers that dance wistfully, and longs for the days it was the height of fashion. I really couldn’t say.
And that’s the crux of it really. I don’t know. I know so little about the world she is from, a world different from the world I know, but which are, in fact, one in the same. And I want to know. I want to know. I want to ask the questions I am told to avoid. I want to discover what tune she hears in her head when she dances. I want to know everything. And I think, I think she is the one that will tell me…
“Staring for more then three minutes could be classified as stalking. Either in or out, but close the door, you’re letting out the chill.”
I smile, she will tell me.
The door shuts harshly, bits of rust flaking from the hinges and mixing with the cinnamon and dust to dance in the sunlight pouring through the only window.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m in.” Her eyes lock with mine, and she smiles, before placing the wooden object she held in her hand back onto the dresser by her side. A lock of white hair falls loose from her braid, only to be swept back behind her ear by the wrinkled fingers of the same hand.
“The statuesque thing really doesn’t work for you, hon. You plan on speaking, working, or just ogling an old lady while she cleans?”
“Tell me.”
Her laugh is crystalline; delicate and contagious. “Well that’s quite a loaded question isn’t it? Tell you, what, exactly?”
“I don’t know. Just about you. About the women in that portrait or about that dress, or about the place you grew up. What your favorite movie is? Or color? Why you dance? What’s in the chest by the window? What story do those books keep? Tell me about what everyone whispers when they think you can’t hear, or why one moment you’re lucid and the next certifiable! Everything. Can’t you…can’t you just tell me everything?”
She appears to contemplate this for a moment; her eyes seem to darken slightly, then soften once more. I begin to wonder if I may have misjudged her. Then I consider that perhaps, it is not the brightest thing to suggest to someone with whom you are about to converse that they might be crazy when there are sharp objects within arm’s reach. And certainly it’s not the most courteous thing to do. She tells me as much.
“I suppose I should start talking, or else it really isn’t much of story is it?”
I smile involuntarily and she moves to her rocker; such a quintessential piece of furniture for an old woman to own. Yet, it sits in the attic collecting dust like any other useless relic. It’s a lot like her, actually…
“Well, then have a seat, have a seat. I do have work to do and telling you the story of everything could take a while. Might as well get started.”
Those sharp eyes twinkle down
at me as I sit, cross-legged, in front of her chair. The sun bounces off the
cinnamon dusted air, and she begins her story…