flowers for the jesus
yesterday a ukranian woman sat on the stairs leading up to 4253 Esplanade. it was 4:56, and she was waiting for 4:00, for her Mark to come, but "he has woman and job and throat problem. he take the pills." and so she sat there, half-lit in that delicate evening-is-coming light, yelling at the cats, reminding me that suzie and murka can only be told apart by their tails. "show me tail. no, this is suzie."
i leaned over the balcony, a floor above her, when i'd finally pulled away from the inevitable recap of Stalin's misbehavior. i could still see her liver spotted feet jetting out onto the lower stoop. this image sent me to sleep.
so today, j, s, and i took red geraniums to her door. she peeked through, ashamed of her stained pajamas, her stomach flu, her inability to "shit in the toilet seat" (her words, not mine). "maybe it is the cottage cheese and sour cream i eat last night. i not supposed to eat. but i like." but the flowers appealed to her. "hello. hello." she says, in a low guttural voice (I realize only later that she is funny, that these antics can't just be chalked up to the absurdity of her old age and immigrant english), welcoming both of them into her home, and wishing to invite us, too, but feeling it an inappropriate time. we're to come back for ice cream one of these days; she made us promise.
although she felt exposed, us at her doorstep, and not at her best, she pulled us in farther and farther, to show us the paintings of jesus. a simple throwaway that you'd find at a thrift store, that she's bestowed with great meaning--surrounded by plastic funerary flowers and candles. she prays for her cats, for her Mark, for stephanie to find a tall german man. she knows it's not worth much, and she's sold other paintings in the past (since she only has 81 cents in the bank), but selling it, she said, would make her a Judas Iscariot. she points out a poster she's framed with a pack of kittens posed photogenically on a tree branch. through her accent, i think i hear her call them her brothers, and she picks out her favorites (the grey being one of the most mentioned), but i may be wrong.
dogs like her more than soldiers.
her dog did not trust any man in uniform.
and once a man in uniform placed a gun in her dog's mouth, and pulled the trigger.
and the modern women have it so easy. "just push a button. but look at me, my knees. they are scratched."
and so we've left flowers not for the jesus, but for one of his followers. and one who has been neglected.
i leaned over the balcony, a floor above her, when i'd finally pulled away from the inevitable recap of Stalin's misbehavior. i could still see her liver spotted feet jetting out onto the lower stoop. this image sent me to sleep.
so today, j, s, and i took red geraniums to her door. she peeked through, ashamed of her stained pajamas, her stomach flu, her inability to "shit in the toilet seat" (her words, not mine). "maybe it is the cottage cheese and sour cream i eat last night. i not supposed to eat. but i like." but the flowers appealed to her. "hello. hello." she says, in a low guttural voice (I realize only later that she is funny, that these antics can't just be chalked up to the absurdity of her old age and immigrant english), welcoming both of them into her home, and wishing to invite us, too, but feeling it an inappropriate time. we're to come back for ice cream one of these days; she made us promise.
although she felt exposed, us at her doorstep, and not at her best, she pulled us in farther and farther, to show us the paintings of jesus. a simple throwaway that you'd find at a thrift store, that she's bestowed with great meaning--surrounded by plastic funerary flowers and candles. she prays for her cats, for her Mark, for stephanie to find a tall german man. she knows it's not worth much, and she's sold other paintings in the past (since she only has 81 cents in the bank), but selling it, she said, would make her a Judas Iscariot. she points out a poster she's framed with a pack of kittens posed photogenically on a tree branch. through her accent, i think i hear her call them her brothers, and she picks out her favorites (the grey being one of the most mentioned), but i may be wrong.
dogs like her more than soldiers.
her dog did not trust any man in uniform.
and once a man in uniform placed a gun in her dog's mouth, and pulled the trigger.
and the modern women have it so easy. "just push a button. but look at me, my knees. they are scratched."
and so we've left flowers not for the jesus, but for one of his followers. and one who has been neglected.
posted by jordan at 2:26 PM
3 Comments:
Quite nice, Jordania.
I have no words just that it was very endearing.
Take care of this woman in the time you have left. She is precious, precious, precious. Then when you get back to the United States of Awesome come stay with me. Can you do that? Thanks. I appreciate it.
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