Two of the Furies

The old woman in the parking lot wields her walker not unspryly. Gray hair lank and without style, hanging under her ski hat, as I wear a ski hat— her legs bare under her skirt, my legs bare under my skirt, she wears sneakers, I wear sneakers— windbreaker, windbreaker. She rolls up to watch me board, as people do, because it is interesting to see the wheelchair maneuvered backward into the van.You got it? she asks, as people do though I am not their child. We are not sisters either, despite the wind’s ruffling our skirts in sync— oh how she is interested in the ruffling of my skirt. The ruffle makes her giddy, starts her bald gums racing on their wordless observations as she peers into my thighs. How alike we are! says this no-sister of mine to be argued with, just some crazy old woman flashing the terrible crater of her smile to raise the wind and prove her point.