Tuesday

It was damp Tuesday. It was one of those thickly-overcast days that leaves us unaware of the sun’s position in the sky, and the earth seems to dully brighten to the climax of the day, then slowly die out. It was a day full of wonder, a day one would dream to be outside on.

On my way back home from walking again, Tuesday, I had decided to detour through downtown and perhaps capture a few more scenarios on film, camera in hand. I had been to the pond, over the creek, and around the brush on my father’s land, but I still had one last photograph to finish my roll. And determined to end with yet another wondrous scene in my soon-to-be-compiled album of week 24 in my photo journal, I found the perfect scene.

Ready to cross the street, my sharp eyes caught sight of a wonderful scene. My quick nerves caused me to halt right there, as not to disturb any photographic element. I began to frame this special photograph in my viewfinder.

On the opposite sidewalk from me sat a girl, propped on her left shoulder against a more recently green lamp post, but a coat of yellow paint showed beneath the peeling top layer. She looked like a soldier, tired and weary from battle that had sought and found shelter in a nearby barn. I could see the soldier inside her collapsing into a bale of hay there in the midst of the stalls and the curious animals crept out to see who just entered.

But I could not see her face from where I stood for her head was hung there and staring at the ground just underneath her. Or perhaps she was asleep or daydreaming; remember that I could not see her eyes either. Her arm was rested on the ground next to her, limp as if she was overcome with fatigue or ready to die of frustration. The delicate, weak arm was followed by and also limp hand which was wrapped around a little white object.

I lowered my viewfinder to take a better look at what she was carrying with her as she had come from wherever she came, for surely she had come from somewhere nearby. It was a figurine on a little person. It had no face, so one could not tell its gender. It was only in the shape of a body, and it wore a cap with a ruffled brim encircling the entire circumference. The little person must have been made of some whitish glass or solid marble, a rarely seen keepsake. It was as polished as marble, as solid as ivory, and as pure as pearl.

Who did this figure represent? Is the girl sane? Might I encounter an unstable being? I stopped asking questions and took a long breath. Thirty seconds and I closed my eyes to sort my thoughts, it is a habit of mine. Forty seconds and I opened them again. The girl still sat there, head down, hair pulled back in one of those lazy ponytails which tells she had simply gathered her hair about her shoulders and banded it behind her, seeking to show no appearance or statement of fashion.

So I watched her take two more breaths with my viewfinder down. All sense of time had left. I was simply struck aghast at this timeless scene. And as I brought my viewfinder up once more I saw her head lifted and our eyes met through three thick layers of carefully polished and skillfully aligned glass. The light in her eyes streamed through to mine, and I was blinded, startled, and frightened from her gaze.

Five minutes we stared at each other. I was frozen from where I stood. And without any more interest, she returned to staring at the ground, leaving me feeling like I had exploited her effortless nature.