The Reader
She loved to read. Not a spare moment passed that she wouldn't be found with a book in her hand, raptly turning the pages. Other children found her strange, adults thought she'd grow out of it, become more social. Eventually, the common teenage memes would enter her mind, and her world of ink and thought would give way to a world of makeup and boys.
They were somewhat concerned.
She carried her books everywhere, constant companions. A search of her schoolbag might reveal a spare or two, squirreled away in case one might be completed too quickly. At social events, other parents remarked on her maturity and adult aspirations, such a little lady with her handbag, for what could a child have to carry? They never knew why her handbags were always so large.
As the years passed, her love never abated. Boys, such transient creatures, came and went. She stood in line while others married off, another face in a line of girls in purple, peach, lemon, tulle, organza, satin. Some photographers noticed an occasional anxious glance, assuming a need for a restroom, not the need for another chapter.
Time passed. She bought a cat. Then another. They climbed the Everests of books in her apartment.
Her job merely provided money for more books. Never a glutton, always a modest drinker, she kept her needs few and hidden. They overflowed the shelves she bought, began to fight the floor for space.
She grew old. Her married friends had children, who grew, married, had children of their own, moved far away, and didn't call. Husbands passed, the occassional heart-rend of a child's funeral.
Then hers came.
The caretaker said it was creepy, the old woman lying so peaceful in her soft reading chair. Wasn't it just good luck she came every other day, or else who would've found the old woman? Would her cats have eaten her? The caretaker got great mileage from her story, relishing how her friends went quiet to hear the story of her discovery again and again.
The old woman's books were carted away, her cats adopted, her funeral planned and executed.
She decided to attend.
A few friends (whose weddings she'd attended, the peach tulle here, the lavender pouf there) scattered through the tiny chapel, causing it to appear far larger than its paltry size. The friends whispered, here and there, about the tragedy of her life: only her books, they said, she never loved, never had children of her own. It was so sad, her life. She must have been so lonely.
From a back pew, she laughed, a sharp gust of wind through the trees.
Oh, she sighed, if I could only have you understand. You have your children, who never call, who have willingly forgotten you in your dotage. Your dead husbands, who praised your meatloaf and boffed their secretaries till inertia and old age took them.
Perhaps, she thought, I lived the life less real, but the life less mundane. I walked on the stars, fought the great wars of history with their generals, and cried with haunted lovers on distant moors. You have had children, I have had galaxies. You had loveless, common marriages, I had the greatest loves of all time. And who would say these things weren't mine?
She shook her head and heaved a sigh, a bit of rain fell and the sun shone through the clouds.
She turned to go, the meager chapel settled in its foundations.
They were somewhat concerned.
She carried her books everywhere, constant companions. A search of her schoolbag might reveal a spare or two, squirreled away in case one might be completed too quickly. At social events, other parents remarked on her maturity and adult aspirations, such a little lady with her handbag, for what could a child have to carry? They never knew why her handbags were always so large.
As the years passed, her love never abated. Boys, such transient creatures, came and went. She stood in line while others married off, another face in a line of girls in purple, peach, lemon, tulle, organza, satin. Some photographers noticed an occasional anxious glance, assuming a need for a restroom, not the need for another chapter.
Time passed. She bought a cat. Then another. They climbed the Everests of books in her apartment.
Her job merely provided money for more books. Never a glutton, always a modest drinker, she kept her needs few and hidden. They overflowed the shelves she bought, began to fight the floor for space.
She grew old. Her married friends had children, who grew, married, had children of their own, moved far away, and didn't call. Husbands passed, the occassional heart-rend of a child's funeral.
Then hers came.
The caretaker said it was creepy, the old woman lying so peaceful in her soft reading chair. Wasn't it just good luck she came every other day, or else who would've found the old woman? Would her cats have eaten her? The caretaker got great mileage from her story, relishing how her friends went quiet to hear the story of her discovery again and again.
The old woman's books were carted away, her cats adopted, her funeral planned and executed.
She decided to attend.
A few friends (whose weddings she'd attended, the peach tulle here, the lavender pouf there) scattered through the tiny chapel, causing it to appear far larger than its paltry size. The friends whispered, here and there, about the tragedy of her life: only her books, they said, she never loved, never had children of her own. It was so sad, her life. She must have been so lonely.
From a back pew, she laughed, a sharp gust of wind through the trees.
Oh, she sighed, if I could only have you understand. You have your children, who never call, who have willingly forgotten you in your dotage. Your dead husbands, who praised your meatloaf and boffed their secretaries till inertia and old age took them.
Perhaps, she thought, I lived the life less real, but the life less mundane. I walked on the stars, fought the great wars of history with their generals, and cried with haunted lovers on distant moors. You have had children, I have had galaxies. You had loveless, common marriages, I had the greatest loves of all time. And who would say these things weren't mine?
She shook her head and heaved a sigh, a bit of rain fell and the sun shone through the clouds.
She turned to go, the meager chapel settled in its foundations.