To look is far different to stare.
She saw herself in the breakfast table sipping her tea. She hesitated to go back for she feared of inability to toss the coin and make sure that the side she had chosen will appear. But she still remains the only real thing. Confused, she made a step backward, captured momentum, jumped on her lap, landed on the table and spilled the tea on herself.
The home of the Lawrence
She walked through the huge door toward the office. With the rays of the sun coming through the window, she could only see his shadow. Mr. Lawrence’s silhouette speaks of broad shoulders, muscular arms, prominent back and firm legs. This is the man whom she adored for control of power and undisputable decisions.
“I’d do it if I can. Give me more time to solve and think about it. Spare the factory.”
He dropped the phone. He remained seated motionless in front of the table, with a hand holding a pen trembling. She let the door closed, backing off. This is no time to face him.
On the fertile vineyard, which gets the most sufficient sunlight, water and protection from the pests, she took advantage of abundance, plucked a grapefruit and ate it. She instinctively made a face, spit the fruit and ran away.
“I see you’re here. We’d better go to town.”
Aunt Emma lifted her and moved her wrinkled hand on her back. On the street she stopped in front of a vendor selling rosaries and handkerchiefs. Picking up a silver rosary,
“How much is this one?”
“30 pesetas madam.”
“Your handkerchiefs are quite of a taste. I’d better buy them eh?”
“No, no madam. Rosary is better than those. It wipes and cleans down the soul.”
Aunt Emma suddenly held her tighter and threw a fierce look on the vendor. She dropped the rosary and walked off hurriedly.
Droplets of sweat slide off the blacksmith’s neck and forehead. There is a loud noise each time he releases the hammer and hit the metal as his muscles contract. The metal glows with every release and contact. A few more sweat and hits and it would be in the form as what the creator planned.
Aunt Emma entered the baker’s shop and she was freed, left alone outside. A boy proudly walked towards her with a hand on his pocket.
“What are you staring at poor little one? Roaming around with nowhere to go or with any idea what is worth doing.”
He sat beside her.
“I’d go to the factory. No more stupid plays and corny jokes with those pest little kids that creeps my nerves. I’d do as the manager please. Let him enjoy his nagging and orders as I wait for some chance to knock him off and eventually replace him.”
The boy stood fixing his hat and collar.
“Poor little boy. He’s no youth of solid ideas of what is worth living,” she thought sympathetically.
A few blocks from the baker’s shop were a small inn. Seated on the entrance was a man staring in a mailbox. Seemingly going back to his senses, he stood and went to check the mailbox. He remained standing there for quite some time and went back from where he sat, this time, covering his face with his hands. The mailman finally came dropping three envelopes. The man, with his crumpled white shirt, ragged jeans and uncombed hair, hurriedly went to check. After reading what was written on the envelopes, he walked back from where he sat and stared blankly on the mailbox.
After that incident, she saw a coin and longed to pick it. It was perfectly round and golden with the state’s symbol of sovereignty. “Thank God,” a woman picked it up on her behalf.
Back at home, she looked around the garden and went near one of the bushes. She saw water dropped off the petal of a flower, calming, refreshing, celebrating. She remembered entering the master’s bedroom to see Mrs. Lawrence when she was little. Newly picked flowers stood on the elaborate vases.
“Aren’t they beautiful dear? Tomorrow I’ll ask Lucia to pick flowers and place them in your bedroom.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be in the garden?”
“No, no. They’re like servants dear. They give us beauty and happiness as payment to us who nurture them. And when they wither, we can just dump them just as those old nannies, you see. They can no longer take care of you.”
Water dropped off a petal of a flower. She cried.
Elegant porcelain plates, saucer, tea cups and golden spoons and forks are laid on the breakfast table as Sylvia Lawrence makes her way down the stairs of the mansion. She wore her simple beige dress which compliments her fair skin, silky black curls and blue eyes. She was, just as the day, perfect to start out in the garden.
“Good morning princess. Oh, you’re lovely my dear.”
“Thanks Aunt Emma. But I bet there is no one lovelier than my cat. My best friend never fails me you know. What are their said to be ‘nine lives’ for? She makes a good companion. One that lasts.”
“In that I somewhat disagree. I don’t think it’s appropriate that you’re so fond of her treating her as best friend. It could also be ‘nine lives entails nine deaths’.”
The cat moved back and forth in front of the breakfast table, making loud sighs waiting for the lady to call her. Sylvia then threw her best smile onto her and the cat knew it’s about time. The cat took a step backward, captured momentum and jumped on Sylvia’s lap, finally landing on the table grabbing the most luscious blueberry pie in the world.
Out of the table looking back, she gave her best friend that stare which opened the window to her soul.
The paws, the whiskers, and the tail- all were improbable.
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