The Gift

The Gift

             She sat, with her widow open, so that the warmth of the early fall day could enter and chase away the stale dreariness that had settled over the last few grey rainy days, watching the cars blow by, the squirrels and the pigeons gossiping, and carousing in the sun-drenched park across the street.

            This was her world now, all 800 square feet of it, this and the window. The boy appeared from around the corner khaki pants, and white polo shirt, a book bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, the sun seeming to beam right from his smile, surrounding him like a halo. He didn’t look up as he passed her window, he was too focused on getting to where he was getting too, but still, the energy flowing around him, like his own force field, made her smile, even as she envied how fast and far his legs could carry him without the slightest complaint.

She had long forgotten the last time she could boast of standing without a steadying arm and every one of her muscles, from head to toe, joining together in indignant protest. This boy with his skin, the same dark brown of her coffee and eyes as bright and shiny as the new minted pennies she used to love as a girl, was a long way from that.

            Every weekday in September, he flew by her window, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground, hurrying home, she supposed. Always, that brilliant smile, sometimes singing softly, sometimes, throwing a casual wave in her direction, those times always made her smile.

            She first noticed the change in October, well before Halloween. Not much at first,  just a slowing in his step, the smile not as bright, the book bag that had once hung from his shoulder with such ease, seeming to drag him down.

            In November the weather changed hardly at all, but the boy changed. He no longer rushed past her window in a burst of energy on winged feet. Now, he trudged along, head down, so lost in his own world that he didn’t notice her anymore. Instead of rushing home, he sat alone in the park, sometimes a book open in front of him, but often staring into space. The pigeons and the squirrels grew used to his company and no longer scattered, going about their own lives as if he were merely a new species of tree.

            She would always remember that it was a Monday, when she told the story later to anyone who cared to hear it. All day the news had talked about the 1^st winter storm barreling towards the city. Wind shook the window and tossed about branches. Outside her window it looked closer to 8pm than 4, but the boy came. His head bent, his skinny body bundled into a thick winter coat, hat pulled down around his ears.

He sat and opened the book, barely moving as she watched. Then, in a movement so sudden, it reminded the squirrels of his presence, he picked up the book and threw it. Afterwards, he stood staring at the book, lying on the frozen ground, but did not go to retrieve it. Instead he sank back down onto the bench, buried his face in his arms and cried.

            She wanted to go to him. She tried, made it all the way to the door, but her hands wouldn’t let her turn the locks. She couldn’t let in a world that she knew held so much evil, but she couldn’t turn away, so she stood staring at the door, her own tears falling down her face. When she turned back to the window, he was gone, but the book lay there still.

            The woman sat at the window and watched day turn to night. No one came. She paced the floor returning to window to look at the book over and over.  When the bells of St. Mary’s Church rang in midnight, with the moon high in the sky, she tore open the door fighting against the screams in her head telling her to go back, she burst into a world that she had turned her back on so long ago, raced across the street, snatched the frozen book from the ground and ran as fast as her old lady legs could carry her back to safety.

            That night, she slept with the book cradled in her arms, like the baby girl she had long since lost, her tears washing away the ice from the frozen cover. In the morning she arose, opened her closet, and dressed in the uniform that so many children would have recognized, black skirt, white shirt, black kitten heel shoes, black blazer. She scraped her hair into a tight bun, ate a quick breakfast of toast and coffee and 1 boiled egg then took her seat at the window and waited.

            The boy arrived as he always did, his head spinning around, bending over looking for the book. When his search was through, he fell back onto the bench his hands buried in his pocket, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low.

            “Young man,” she yelled, her voice far sharper than she intended.

            He didn’t move at first, so she yelled across to him again. This time he raised his head and looked at her.

            She raised the book to the window, watching as his eyes brightened and just a hint of the smile she so missed appeared. She waved to him as he ran across the street.

            She opened the door, and he stepped inside. His strong brown fingers were careful when he took her delicate pale hand in his and introduced himself properly. They had cocoa and he told her about his failure to grasp math and the heartbreak it caused his mother. She opened the book and watched hope creep into his eyes as she interpreted what had been foreign to him.

            Years of cocoa and smores, baby brothers, girlfriends, celebrations, and frustration, rushed past as quickly as sand in an hour glass. His worst enemy became his best friend.  And now she stood at the door again. The package, delivered by courier in one hand, a golden apple, inscribed with words she could not read through her tears, the beautiful invitation, in the other. 

            College graduation, a time to spread your wings and fly fearlessly into the world. Downstairs a car horn blew for her. She pressed her lips against the shiny gold apple, turned the locks, and stepped outside into the golden June sunshine.