Me and Maya
Prose
We sit. In a hotel room, curtains semi-drawn so that a crack of light drips through to surround us like a lull. Her customary yellow legal pad rests between us. Her ample hands drape the pencil in them, waiting tenderly for direction. She does not hesitate. She too waits for it to guide. Until they are primed, we sit.
She hums. Her baritone matches mine, the same way parts of her story does. The sound seems to erode the walls of her throat as it flows out of her. I wonder if she knew, even without words she taught me their power. Like a magnet, her voice seems to call letters to her — seems to form the words for her. It spreads to fill every corner, as she hums.
I smile. My eyes trace the rugged beauty of her melting face. No age shows there, only wisdom. My vision absorbs each blemish, trying to read our history in them. Wishing not to be her, but to have known her. I resolve to learn from her, that my words too, could be carved with purpose and plucked with intention. I long to mention her influence and intend to pour out admiration. But sitting here, soaking in her hum, the only words that come are thank you, and I smile.
© Wilfreda Edward 2021
A little late, but thanks to J.D. Harms for last Saturday’s “what’s your hero doing” prompt.
