The old woman strolls around the subdivision every day.
She religiously sticks to her schedule — that is, just before the sun materializes in the horizon, spreading its golden rays across the vast, empty roads and the gleaming scarlet roofs, and the exact moment when she finally hears the distant cuckoo of roosters.
She goes out in full gear — sweater, jogging pants, and a pair of bedraggled sneakers. She even brings a towel and a bottle of water with her, for good measure. It’s not like she will actually be jogging (although she has frequently seen men her age who still do, a sight that never fails to fascinate her), but she likes to pretend that she does.
She ambles around the vacated streets for at least half an hour, delighting in the smallest things. Like how a dew glides across a leaf. Or how flocks of birds soar above the sky, specks of black in a cascade of orange and purple.
She surveys houses in a way that normal people don’t get to witness — when they’re swathed in silence, when they’re most serene. And then the old woman is free to fashion any story that she fancies.
Inside, a mother tenderly wakes her children. A father stirs his coffee, the fragrant aroma suffusing the dining room, invigorating him. Or maybe someone is cooking in the kitchen, and the people upstairs can hear the distinct crackling of oil. Or someone is tending the garden —
The possibilities are, needless to say, endless, and it’s this little fact that often elicits a smile from the old woman’s thin lips.
But it’s not always warmth and exhilaration. Other times, she’s also filled with melancholy. Like now.
When she turns around a corner, a youth wearing a uniform emerges. The moment he catches a glimpse of the old woman, he trains his eyes on the ground.
After a while, he crosses to the other side of the road, just so his path doesn’t converge with hers. Just so it will be a lot easier to ignore this hunched figure who hobbles on her feet.
There are instances when a youngster won’t have the guts to ignore her so blatantly, and what they’ll do instead is avoid her gaze. Pretend that she isn’t there.
This stings her. The old woman tries her hardest to expel the pains ready to engulf her. She wonders what they see, what they feel. Are the elderly such a repulsive sight? How difficult will it be to spare her a glance, to give her even the merest hint of a smile? She isn’t asking much — just a few seconds, just a few words.
Suddenly it hits her that she really has aged. That she’s now treading on a wholly different era. She realizes that she doesn’t belong here.
Her mind drifts off to the past, and she is awash with the memories of her childhood. When she was younger, people didn’t lead such indifferent and cloistered lives. Everyone in town knew each other; everyone was connected by a special bond that brought them closer, that made them intimate.
When she was younger, people never failed to greet the elderly when they’d stumble upon one on the street. Never mind if the wizened old man was a stranger. It was simply the way things were — her parents didn’t even need to tell her about it.
Presently, she sighs. What a time to be alive.
Above her, the sky is heavy and overcast. She needs to get home soon.
