Mneme

There's this girl I know, down the street. People think she's weird... But not me. I know better. I know why she sits there all day...

 

            There’s this girl I know, down the street.  People think she’s weird.  I’ve heard them call her everything from a recluse to a witch.  I’ve heard every possible explanation for our local Boo Radley, every possible reason for her to sit at the window of her ramshackle little house, gazing out at people as they pass by.  Motionless.  Expressionless.  Always staring, always looking at the same place.  Always at the people as they hurry along the sidewalk, as they snicker to themselves and they make faces at the statue-lady in the blue cottage.  All these people who tell ridiculous stories about her, who gossip about her, because they know the tales will never reach her ears.  All these people who have absolutely no idea who she is.

            But not me.  I know better.  I know why she sits there all day.  Know why her eyes never move from that spot beside the rotting oak tree in her driveway.  Know that she doesn’t see what we see each time we walk past that house…

            One day I passed by and she wasn’t in her window.  This came as such a surprise that I stopped in my tracks, wondering where she could have gone and fleetingly considering that perhaps she had only been a statue after all.  But then I heard a clatter from somewhere in the house, and moments later an elderly woman appeared around the corner of the porch.  She didn’t look up at me as she passed by, didn’t say a word or even acknowledge I was there.  Only got into her rusty Skylark with the faded blue paint and sputtered away down the empty street. 

            Under any other circumstances I would’ve shrugged the whole thing off, would’ve kept on walking home.  But part of me wanted to wait, wanted to see if the girl would return to her window seat.  All I wanted was to see her moving, alive.  But when I stood there for a few minutes, and she didn’t come back, my curiosity got the best of me. I quickly found myself making my way toward the back of the house, the dried grass and shriveled weeds crumbling beneath my feet as I went.

            The space between the house and the neighboring fence was obscured by the spindly branches of graying trees that looked as though they had died long before they’d fully grown.  After forcing my way through this unfriendly obstacle, I came upon a wooden gate with a broken latch just barely holding on by its hinges.  I slipped through the gap and into an entirely new world.  The most lavish, beautiful garden enveloped me as I took a few hesitant steps away from the gate.  Birch trees lined the backyard where a fence might have been.  Everything around me was so green, bathed in golden light from the afternoon sun.  There were bursts of color everywhere I turned, all hues of red, yellow, blue.  There were flowers I’d only seen in books, or movies set in far-off places.  Some dandelions lurked in the corners, but even these became delightful and exotic in this dream world.

            “Do you like it?”

            I nearly jumped out of my skin as I spun around to see the girl from the window watching me from the doorway.

            “I-I’m sorry�"I didn’t mean to intrude�"” I apologized, stumbling over my words.

The girl merely smiled. “It’s all right.” She wasn’t really looking at me so much as past me, perhaps at the tendrils of the birch trees swaying around my head. “I actually don’t mind unexpected visitors.  I kind of like sharing this with someone from time to time,” she said, gesturing to our surreal surroundings.  There was something in her voice I couldn’t quite place.  Her tone was soft, with a note of serenity and something like…sadness?  Or was it resignation?

“It’s unbelievable,” I said, taking another look around.  I almost expected the garden to disappear in a cloud of smoke, like it was an illusion all along.

“I prefer the term ‘whimsical,’ but thank you,” she said with a wry smile as she stepped onto the grass. “My name’s Rosalyn, by the way,” she added, extending her hand toward me, her eyes fixated on something behind my shoulder.

“Clara,” I replied, taking her hand.  There were fine lines around Rosalyn’s eyes and mouth�"shadows of laughter that hadn’t graced her face in a long time.  Wisps of grey hid above her ears�"flecks of premature silver in her otherwise chestnut hair.  And her hands… they were soft and brittle all at once.  For one so young she looked and felt strangely old.  I shook myself out of my observations and asked, “How�"?”

“A friend of mine keeps it up for me,” she said, turning away and walking toward another corner of her garden. “She makes sure it looks just as I remember it did.” She ran gentle fingertips over the petals of a dark crimson rose. “Helps me see it in my head better, y’know?”

Just as soon as I opened my mouth to ask what she meant, I shut it again and blushed furiously.  Suddenly I understood why Rosalyn never looked me in the eye.

“Don’t be ashamed,” she said.  I could hear the smile in her voice just as easily as she could sense my flushed face. “People are always surprised when they figure it out.  Guess they wouldn’t expect some blind girl to have such a beautiful garden when she can’t even enjoy it.” I remained silent.  Swore I felt a chill on the breeze as it floated through the trees.  Rosalyn continued. “But that’s just the thing�"I can see it perfectly.  All of it.  I hear it, and smell it, and feel it.  I can even taste it in the air.  It’s all quite clear up here, actually,” she said, tapping her temple.

When Rosalyn didn’t speak for a few moments, I drew up some courage to ask, “If you’ve got this amazing garden back here, why do you spend so much time at the front window of your house?”

Rosalyn tilted her head back and closed her eyes, looking oddly ethereal as the setting sun illuminated stray strands of hair like a halo around her head. “I guess it’s strange to you that I don’t stay out here all day… But the thing is, I know this is here, and will always be here.” She sounded sad again. “See… I still remember what my front yard looked like when I was little.  How the house smelled when my mom was cooking dinner.  My dad pulling into the driveway when he came home from work.  His scruff brushing my ear as he scooped me up and kissed my face …” Rosalyn turned to look at me.  My heart gave a startled jolt at the way her grey eyes seemed to be piercing directly through mine. “I spend all my time looking out that window, remembering those days, because they’re the hardest memories to keep alive.  This garden�"” she raised her arms slightly and gestured around her, “�"it’s alive.  It is a living, breathing thing.” She paused. “It’s still here…  Other things�"once they’re gone�"they’re the ones that wither and fade when you don’t take the time to remember them…”

Without another word, Rosalyn walked back into her house.  Shut the door without a sound.  I just stood there, staring at the spot where Rosalyn had been only moments earlier, among the roses.  She left an after-image in her wake that has remained fixed in my mind’s eye ever since.

I don’t remember the walk home that day.  I don’t remember what I ate for dinner.  I don’t remember brushing my teeth, or crawling into bed.  All I can remember, all I could see, was Rosalyn, moving gracefully around that garden, a ghost in her own memories.

I still see her from time to time, sitting in her window. But I never went back to visit her, or her garden.  It’s not that I haven’t had the opportunity or the inclination.  It’s not that I haven’t wondered what happened in Rosalyn’s past, what stories her memory held.  Stories I can only imagine, stories I will never know, locked away deep inside, hiding in the shadows of that garden.  It just wasn’t my place to trespass there again.

I wave to her sometimes, when no one else is around.  She never waves back, but I think maybe she knows I’m there, maybe sees me standing next to a lush green lawn, a majestic oak tree.  Maybe waves back at me over her father’s shoulder as they disappear into the kitchen to watch the sun setting on their memories.