—Lesa Medley

She’s tall, thin and very old
but not frail.
Long black lacy dress,
Victorian
buttoned-up,
old, pointed high heeled shoes,
black,
buttoned up.
Snow white hair in a tight bun
at the nape of her long, thin
wrinkled neck,
penetrating steely blue eyes,
pursed, thin, tight lips,
painted red,
long fingernails, tapered,
painted red.
In her left hand is a lit cigarette
held between two bony fingers by a long holder,
slender, tortoise shell.
Looking over my shoulder,
she takes a puff, points at me and,
blowing blue smoke in my face,
she says in her deep raspy voice,
“Oh no dear, you mustn’t write about that,
it isn’t nice or ladylike.

What will people think?
What will people say?
What will your Mother say?
Oh no, that will not do,
tsk tsk”.
Another puff and blue smoke.
“Will not do, at all.
Honestly, dear,
I just don’t know why you even bother,
you know you really don’t have
anything worthwhile to say anyway.
You certainly haven’t any talent to speak of.
Surely, you must know that. ”
The very next time she shows up,
(and she will)
I want to say…
no, I will say, this:
“You may be right, but for now,
no, I do not know that,
so thank you for sharing darling,
but, if you don’t mind,
I think I will keep trying anyway.
Now, please, put out that cigarette
and be quiet or go away,
I’m writing.”