Mme. Whimsy

The realities of hot climate had long since made their mark on her once deliciously somber wardrobe. So the woman I knew, the woman who loved me so well all those many years ago was nearly unrecognizable in all her bare glow as she sauntered down the steep cobble stone steps. She still sauntered. Chin parallel with the ground, intentional hippy steps, brisk, but gentile, determined, but overly familiar and content with her surroundings.

Her black fedora, abandoned, and in its place flounced a wide-brimmed stone sun hat. The mountain breeze flitted her caramel hair across her naked shoulders. She was more olive. I could see the heat rolling off her acclimated skin. An indiscernible pattern in satsuma orange hugged her trim figure where once a plethora of grays would layer her look in wools, tweeds,and cashmeres. The charcoal and chocolate crocheted chenille scarf that once coiled cozily around her neck was usurped by a white pashmina draped organically around her arms. I could barely make out her delicate leather sandals, unlike the formidable tobacco boots with a respectable patina from loving overuse.

Perhaps the most incongruous aspect of my old friend were her hands. Empty hands. No water bottle. No phone. No oversized hobo bag, not even a clutch. A spontaneous gale arose as she walked under the arches of the Basilica de San Francesco and I watched as her left hand gripped her shawl and the right circled around her wide brim and stamped firmly on top of her hat. She paused. Breathed. Taking in the sea blue sky and blurs of vibrant green shrouding the vista. Then, she turned several corners of the stone labyrinth with instinctive speed and I had difficulty following her.

Just as I caught up with her, risking perhaps to call out her name at last, she tucked into a charming storefront gilded with hanging ferns, climbing ivy and a cherry red begonia sprawling happily over its indigenous habitat. A wrought iron lamp crested the store's sign. My soul smiled.


To be continued...