woman with the gray bun.

This happened first: I tried to make myself write something about lists. Or write a list. I don’t know, it wasn’t working. I was staring out the window and taking unnecessary bathroom breaks. I was trying to mold my mind and fool my creative juices into producing something other than what they want.

Here’s what I really want to write about today: a stranger. I write at the risk of sounding a little crazy. I might be because I make friends with strangers in my mind. I’ve said it before: I see the same random sets of strangers each day as I walk to and from work. I spend about an hour each day walk-commuting and passing by people on the street. The familiar ones have nicknames in my head. I’ve imagined various lives and stories for them. I feel relieved when we pass on the sidewalk. I wonder where they are when we don’t.

My favorite stranger is the old woman with the gray bun. I always pass her at the fence around the big green space by the college. She’s average size with a steady walk. Her hair is always pulled back, center part, into a bun. She wears large framed plastic glasses, the kind that rest on your cheeks and lift up and down as you talk or smile. I have never seen her talk or smile, but I imagine it would make her glasses dance. She always wears a long skirt and sensible shoes. A fanny pack is buckled over her sweater or turtleneck. She carries a large leather briefcase in her right hand and her right step hits a little harder. Yesterday it was cold and she was wearing a yellow quilted down vest. Her glasses were a little foggy.

Last week I walked home in the rain one day. I always leave my office and weigh the options: 1) walk in the rain and get a little wet, or 2) ride the hot crowded bus. Usually I walk and I tell myself it isn’t raining hard (even when it is). Anyway, I had an umbrella.

As I was walking home that day, I passed the lady with the gray bun in her usual uniform with the same look on her face - but she didn’t have an umbrella. Her hair was soaked and water was streaming down the lenses of her glasses. There’s a very specific and profound sadness that I know only when I see someone walking in the rain without an umbrella. It makes me want to give mine away.

Lately when I see her, I try for eye contact. I stare right at her face and smile. I stare her down from yards away. She never flinches, never wavers. She never looks at me.

I feel fairly certain I know her life story.  Her husband left her after their children were grown. Her whole life she had been unappreciated and held back. She made roast chicken on Sundays. When her husband left, she sold the house and went back to school to study Art History. That’s why I see her every day at the college.

If you saw me on the street, what life story would you give me?  I hope it's a good one.