The Woman Unknown

She writes slowly. Deliberately. Not quite methodically. The way one would write words no one will want to hear. And yet on her pen scratches. She pauses briefly to look through the glass and sighs. And although it is not her last breath it is certainly close. The way coldness lingers in a room after shutting the door on a winter storm. 

“Write”

There it was again that little voice whispering. Was it in her head? Was that a normal part of the process? It sounded like a voice forgotten. Tucked away with hidden memories and tight laughter that borders on tears. So she keeps writing. Maybe slightly faster, but not to be noticed by anyone passing by. 

She sits at a regal red chair with faded stitched embroidery that had clearly been picked at by nervous hands. But her hands were steady. They had a task to complete. A task that would be done again and again by countless others. It was time for her to join the ranks. 

It’s hard at times like these to not contemplate the past. And although an exceptional woman, she is not above regret. Above wanting what will never return. You can see it in her eyes when she oh so briefly leaves the stability of the task before her. She has always been good at completing jobs however impossible they may seem. They say she was a major player in Parn and Casey amendment about ten years back. And that she was there for the Juno negotiations. It is even rumored she helped orchestrate the Keller admissions, but that one is a harder sell given it was sixty-one years ago.  Although not outside of the realm of possibility.

But she is not thinking of any of that now. Not of the potential triumphs in human rights. Not even the near misses with political disaster. 

“Write”

“In a moment” she is not sure if she responds in a thought or in an inaudible whisper. But she is heard. The way speaking is heard in dreams. She lets her pen take a well-earned rest and closes her eyes. But sleep is not her goal. She listens to the late-night city street dance with the rain and allows the sound to transport her. 

She stands on a street corner, mid-afternoon, but you wouldn’t know given the dark clouds covering the sky. The rain pours down heavy and fast and almost drowns out her laughter. Almost. But her radiance intertwines with the rain and an onlooker could almost forget to put up his umbrella. Some do.  

And then she is lifted in the air by a man who also seems to have forgotten the rain and beams in spite of it. Or with it.

Around the corner, tucked away between walls-of-windows and machine smog, is a small apartment. The same two from the laughing street corner are washing and drying dishes. Dancing to a secret song. They feel this moment last forever and end in a blink as she dashes out the door. One last smile before she goes. Maybe a witty comment crafted specifically for his ears. And it lands with a contained laugh spilling out into a widening grin. She doesn’t need to turn back to see her quip land but does anyway. They hold eye contact for a moment and then she closes the door. Playing the age-old game of “No, yes, really closing the door. Okay, now closing the door.” The latch clicks and her footsteps echo in the stairwell. 

They continue to echo as she packs. Quick hands folding dark pants and setting aside light blouses. There is a shake in her hands that one could easily mistake for indecision. The walls seem to close in making it harder to breathe. She looks around hoping the light from the window will also grant her air but it only constricts it further. 

She folds in on herself and tries to –

“Breath” That same voice “You’re breathing”

She is suspended in time and space and wrapped in the voice. A voice that will never be. Maybe never was. But she holds onto it and tucks it away for safekeeping. Both for the sake of the voice and herself. 

The woman opens her eyes as dawn begins to break. The city wakes up and people bustle about.  Some pause for a moment to see her write. Hoping for the mysteries of her life to unfold. Maybe the drama of a long lost relative revealing themselves at the last minute. Maybe a gift from the Prince of Belize only to confirm the Tenal rumors. 

She looks down the street to all of the others in window storefronts, just like her, writing and typing and deliberating. The spectacle of what we leave behind on full display. Some in their best finery- to the dying end wanting to be seen as beautiful. Some writing furiously trying to get in one last paragraph. One last goodbye.  And some. Some just sitting. She had always found those rooms to be the most intriguing even as a young woman. The people who had no one. No one to pass the stories on to that accompanies the ornate lamp. She never thought that that would be her. And yet here she was writing what would be her last will and testament with no belongings to give.   

She laughed in spite of herself to imagine all the people that would gather around only to hear that she was leaving nothing of note. All she had were her memories and those she was going to take with her. Wherever she would end up. Or maybe release them to the universe to enter into the minds of artists and mathematicians and children as they dream. 

Her adventures in the world would seep into monkey bar play and late-night stories and theories and ponderings. 

She liked that thought. 

And then a hand presses against the glass. The young face and sharp eyes that accompany those hands look into the woman with such inquisitive power that the woman snaps out of her world of thought. The woman wants to say something through the glass. To answer at least some of the questions in those young eyes. But that is not what the “Testament” was made for. It was designed to allow you the paradox of being on full display while also being completely alone in your final moments. A fight she hadn’t had time to challenge yet.   

The woman remained unseen for so much of her career - so much of her life. Simply a voice. A presence, but never getting a name attached. Never to be fully known. Maybe not even to be remembered. And she had told herself that’s how she wanted it. Yet these new eyes seemed to hold a different story. They saw her in a way she almost forgot she knew how to be seen. 

And so they continued this silent communication for a moment that seemed to last forever and ended in a blink. 

One final unknown.