Author Unknown

She lives atop a quilt in the second story bedroom of a Victorian home. She lies there, near a rattling window fan that pulls thick August air across her skinny white legs. She's in my neighborhood, she's in your neighborhood. She's called Helen, or Irene.

She's old enough to have known Prohibition. But in those days she got outside, felt the day on her feet, with her hands. She mixed with people and felt their energy, she raced to events and responded to invitations.

Now, the day is experienced on a quilt, in that warm air that tickles her legs, and in the light passing by her lace curtains. She hears children yelling, laughing screaming, and her mind shifts to her days in grammar school.

She is not sad, she is pensive. She is not done living, this is living.

It's living in a different way.

The mailman does not know she's up there, nor does the paper boy. The man living across the street suspects it, but even he's not sure.

She will not die this year, it's not her time. It's time for thoughts and memories, maybe a sip of tea, a view of a Linden tree resting on a boulevard, and a soft beige pillow framing silver hair.

If there is a book I'd like to read tonight, it's the transcript from her mind. If there's a story I'd like to hear tonight, it's the one she's remembering right now.