Old Women

Old women do not fly on magic wands or make obscure prophecies from ominous forests. They just sit on vacant park benches in the quiet evenings calling doves by their names charming them with grains of maize. Or, trembling like waves they stand in endless queues in government hospitals or settle like sterile clouds in post offices awaiting mail from their sons abroad, long ago dead. They whisper like a drizzle as they roam the streets with a lost gaze as though something they had thrown up had never returned to earth. They shiver like December nights in their dreamless sleep on shop verandahs. There are swings still in their half-blind eyes, lilies and Christmases in their failing memory. There is one folktale for each wrinkle on their skin. Their drooping breasts yet have milk enough to feed three generations who would never care for it. All dawns pass leaving them in the dark. They do not fear death, they died long ago. Old women once were continents. They had deep woods in them, lakes, mountains, volcanoes even, even raging gulfs. When the earth was in heat they melted, shrank, leaving only their maps. You can fold them and keep them handy : who knows, they might help you find your way home. 2007