The Ageless Mrs. Nibbetz
She’s always been there—waiting on her stoop
Mrs. Nibbetz lives across the street. She’s lived there as long as I can remember. I don’t even live here anymore.
I lost another job today; they said it was because I can’t keep up. Somehow I’ve become too old.
And yet, here is Mrs. Nibbetz with her afghan and walking stick. It’s like she doesn’t age, or her age has always just been the same.
I’m here to pick up the kids. The grandparents take them twice a week. I can hear them inside, but I hesitate to turn the knob.
Mrs. Nibbetz is out on her front stoop, stirring her cuppa, and holding a faded book like every other day I’ve seen her since my memories begin. I don’t even think the book has changed. It looks like the same book—a tattered copy of Aesop’s Fables. It looks ancient.
“Hullo, boy.”
She always calls me “boy”, almost as if she’s read Peter Pan and Wendy too many times.
“Hello, Mrs. Nibbetz,” I say.
“You don’t visit me much.”
“I’m just here to pick up the kids. Remember, Max and Priscilla, Mrs. Nibbetz?”
“We don’t have much time, boy. I don’t have much time.” She licks a finger and thrusts it upwards as if she’s…
