It is 12:30 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon
I am sitting at the drive-thru of my locally owned pharmacy
with my five year-old daughter in the back seat
waiting for antibiotics for her strep throat
Your apartment is on the second floor
I see you standing in the window
You are wearing a blue sweater
decorated with what appears to be snowflakes
A brush with white paint in your right hand
You step up on a ladder I can’t see
to paint above the window
You are wearing grey pants
You step down
keeping the brush pointed up
A bare light hangs behind you
I guess your age to be 50ish
Your hair light, short and curled
You move the unseen step ladder to your left
then step up to paint in the corner
I only see your elbow, now
What is your story?
Why are you painting a room on a Thursday afternoon?
Did you cradle children in that arm?
Are you recently divorced?
Maybe a widow?
Or did you move to this town to be close to your grandkids?
You step down
Walk across my view
only to return a second later
brush held up, fresh paint on its bristles
Your elbow is the last I see of you
As the pharmacist
instructs me on how many doses my daughter can take today
I drive away
I only see the ceiling of your newly painted room
as I turn onto the street
heading home with my sick daughter
ignorant of your story
but hoping that today’s chapter ends well
