Row, Row, Row Your Boat

A stranger crosses the street in front of me.

I must slam on the brakes as I realize that she will not cross quickly enough before our paths cross.

It’s raining.  She clasps the shawl over her head, her paunchy arm arching like a tea pot handle to the top of her head.   My head lights cut her unctuous body in half at her waist.  Wet, short drips stream from the tip of her nose.  Rain drops or tears?  She doesn’t turn to look at me.

She’s no more than forty, though she claims a swollen body that is as hobbled and crooked as an octogenarian’s.  Slowly, she straddles puddles and feigns hurriedness.  There’s no quickness in her step, however.   Instead, a steady clop of a funeral horse, filled with fear and subtle resignation.

I glance in the rear view mirror and see miles of emptiness.  No other cars approach us.

Eventually, the woman passes through my lane, and I continue.

Many years ago, I might’ve been perturbed at such an inconsideration.  Yet now, I watch readily, realizing that every piece of this puzzle is precisely oriented to fill me with the sweetest completion one could gather in such a brief lifetime.   Timeliness has lost its appeal these days.  Instead, I am lulled along my path in a lazy, babbling flow.  Rather than struggle upstream, I direct myself in gentle bobs, avoiding the creek bed yet still allowing myself to go whereever the water takes me.