January 19, 2014
I suspect she is mentally ill. Much of the
time, her outfits stagger on the sleazy side, as my eye turns towards her this morning,
I balance between disbelief and curiosity. Fake hair, extensions on her
eyelashes, gobs of make-up, skin-tight skirt, spandex top, double-wide hat
perched on her head, that prevents someone being able to sit in the pew seat
next to her. She threw her name out to me, expecting me to catch it, as I wait
in the lobby for a friend. As she lifts her taut shirt, to emphasize the explanation
why she can’t climb the stairs to meet up with the van, arranged to collect
her. The surgery has weakened her, she is also having to wait in the hot
aquarium. More inappropriate private sharing spills from her mouth, without
censorship, startles me into conversation.
Sandrene, I will call her, told me she hated
the soup her sister made for her while she recovered from her operation. She
only likes food that tastes good, not gluten-free, dairy-free, quote, unquote
healthy eating makes her sick. How could I reply. What response is she looking
for. There is little time to reply since the next thought jumped out of her
mouth and the next, and next. She asks where I am from. I told her I honestly
do not know where I call home. I live in the West Side of Saint Paul yet am not
completely convinced it is where I am most comfortable, even today.
I sit on the edge of the blue padded chair,
anxious for the time I can pop-up and leave. Eventually, my parting words come
out with the benevolence I feel, “Have a wonderful afternoon. I hope to see you
again soon, Sandrene.” I look forward to her outrageous attire and over-sized
hat, to stare at during mundane moments in future services.
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