Office Hours
A cafe in Brattleboro, VT
Brattleboro vignette #4
At 6:22 am in almost mid-July, the sun crests over the 3 story building across from my corner chair at The Works.
For a brief hour and a half it runs amuck, spilling over the floors and blinding the customers who chose to face east.
It highlights the mundane.
On occasion an exquisite tableau catches the eye.
Such were the hands caressing the porcelain cup. No saucer.
The hands belong to Jill.
The hands have changed years of cloth diapers secured with safety pins. They have turned the ringer on the washing machine.
They gathered the sun-bleached diapers from the clothes line.
She farmed beside her husband and created pottery.
Now, these 80 year old hands carry groceries from the co-op to the third floor walkup apartment directly across from The Works.
"I can't carry as many groceries now".
Berkeley, CA, "we were hippies".
Jill's father and grandfather were both colliegient instructors of philosophy. Jill still expresses dismay regarding her lack of academic skills.
Perhaps that is why she is writing, longhand in a spiral bound book at the corner table.
She pauses frequently, gazing skyward. She fills page after page.
Her body is draped in muted linen, pants cuffed and complimentary toned sensible shoes.
As she stands to leave, I gesture to the chair beside me. She mistakes my movement for a greeting and waves. She stops at the counter and turns to depart.
As she passes, I turn the extra chair in her direction. Her eyes smiled. Two hours later, I took leave.
"What do I do with the time I have left? There is so much to fix. I write to clarify my thoughts but I have no answers."
Her apartment is stuffed with books. She says the bookstore is closer than the library. She shares the title of a book that I must read.
I have already forgotten the title.
I will seek her company again when I have another spare two hours.
The porcelain cup contained hot water.
