Isn't it amazing to look

Isn't it amazing to look at a quiet little woman in the
store? I mean to see her. Her cart may have a half gallon of milk, one of those
mini-sized cans of biscuits, a package of vanilla lady fingers, a few cans of
cat food, and the meat department packed pork chops. Sometimes, I watch her
slowly write her check. She smiles and thanks the young man for carrying out her
two paper sacked groceries. She has her keys ready and has him place the sacks
in the floor of the back seat of her American-made sedan. Sometimes I find
myself driving behind her. Annoyed at her carefully determined turns and the
signal for 300 feet, she forces me to drive the speed limit and to pay attention
to her every move. She pulls slowly into the carport of a bungalow in the older
section of town where most houses have been turned into rentals. Her
well-manicured lawn shows that someone still comes to mow and trim, while the
flowers are proof that she gets her regular Saturday morning exercise. The
groceries are carried into a small kitchen and put into their proper places. The
cat that followed her in from outside is fed. A dinner is eaten quietly alone.
She retires to her sitting room with a book on her lap and the cat under hand,
purring in the silence of the house. Gleaming on her hand is a ring that is
comfortable in its place. She goes to bed early and dreams of the man who placed
it there. It was yesterday that she was with him in the backyard. He was
photographing her. A mimosa bloom placed behind her ear tickled her cheek. The
tree was a gift for her when they bought the house. They were everywhere in
Japan. The pink had reminded him of her lips. Thin and wrinkled now, they had
once been full and soft as the flower that distracted her from the camera. How
she enjoys the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand on her shoulder and the
small of her back. She watches intently as his hands manipulate the camera. Here
is the only place she can see them, clearly see them and hear him speak. She
awakens, glad to have seen him again. She lies for a moment in the dark. She has
known the sounds of this house for 52 years. The lack of his is the one that
wakes her. She goes down the short hallway to the bathroom for a small drink of
water, the nightlight casting soft shadows on the pink-tiled walls. The cat
investigates the disturbance of her feet on the hardwood. Lying down again, she
closes her eyes hoping to return to the mimosa tree. When I am old, what will
people see?