Sky blue

The other day, I walked past a really old wrinkled lady, with white hair and a rather conservative dress. And sky blue cowboy boots. I loved it! And I kept fantasizing about why she would wear something like that - because you have to admit, blue leather it not usually what you'd think of when someone says "old lady". I don't, at least.


And, as I walked home, I started to think that maybe she'd been married to a strict man, one that followed the rules and dresscodes of society to the extreme. A perfectionist. And then she'd hidden those boots, (that she'd once seen at display in the window of a fancy shoe store, and just had to buy), in the back of her closet, for years, ten years, more, maybe even fifty. Every time he'd been away on a business trip, because he was a business man of course, she'd taken them out, danced in their perfectly furnished living room for a few minutes, and then carefully tucked them back in at their usual spot. It had been her escape from a life so full of routines, it could kill a man; a life so correct a nun would appear inappropriate. But she was not cruel - neither was he: he treated her kindly, so she could not leave him, people didn't leave husbands that didn't hit them, or drink too much, or gamble money on horses and football maches. And he didn't; he just lived his life, their life, correctly.

No matter how well he followed the rules though, he, as all people will once day, died. No well-groomed hair, no neatly buttoned shirt could help the man when his heart just decided to call it the day. Maybe she'd heard some sounds from his office that day, maybe she's noticed a thump, the silence that followed. But routines were made to be followed, and she'd kept still in the living room, working on her embroidery - a very correct and suitable hobby for a woman with respect for herself. And when she had walked into his office to tell him how dinner was ready, 4 PM as every day, he'd already been gone, far beyond gone even. And as a correct wife does, she kept calm, called the ambulance, put the dinner into the fridge so it wouldn't go bad, and then sat down and waited.


After the burial was done - done in a very correct and normal manner, mind you, she'd gone back home. She'd walked upstairs, slowly, her pink slippers carefully carrying her to the second floor. They'd been there, as always, at the back of her closet, behind perfectly ironed suits and folded socks. The word "correct" seemed to dissolve as she kicked her fuzzy slippers across the room, and let her toes feel the shape of perfectly sized blue leather boots that took care of them. As the jumped down the stairs - two steps at the time - they seemed to know they were out of the closet for good, the boots I mean, and they looked brighter than before, the colour more radiant than when they were new - ten, or was it fifty, years ago. And then, she walked all over the word, the cage labeled, "correct", and let her blue boots carry her onto the street - damn the dresscodes, the looks of strangers, the thoughts they might have! Because right then, she felt so young and free and glamorous, Hollywood seemed dull - she was shining, she was a million bucks and more.



...or maybe she just was a odd old lady with a strange taste in shoes. But I like to think otherwise. I think it's good for your imagination. (And wow mama, where did all these words come from?)