Short Story - Grace Me With Time

I awake from my nap, from my skin being tenderly embraced by the hurricane five feet upward. Their new ceiling fan. No noise roused me from my slumbers, in fact, it is unbearably quiet, but it is midday, and my body is ready to resume its duties. My wet hair hangs sticky to my neck, catching itself on my earrings again and again as I rise from the bed, and move blankly to face the white openness that consumes the hallway. I stand beside her, my Teta, and we talk sparingly, taking in the surroundings, and in my case, pulling myself from that nap.

I study the soundlessness of the neighborhood. Cut and paste, picture-perfect with stonewalls and little spurts of colorful flowers, dotting the driveway. My eyes fight the nap still looming overhead, and extend their reach. I am delivered a forever pattern: the slow slope of everything, the yards, the boulevards-life here. And so my eyes wander back to Teta, only letting in her silhouette against the harsh light. But I feel so much more from her. A patience, and amber resilience that emanates from her. From her Arab accent that will not budge for any 55 years in America. A brutish juxtaposition to the tiresome lack of individuality that attempts to attack at all angles, here in this quiet. A vigor seems to reach out to me, from her entirety. Her head trembles slightly, her blow-dried-at-6-am hair moving with every etch in stillness. I look deeper and see her big brown eyes, content, and true. Bravely looking out through the bland and ordinary.

I try to reciprocate the interest, tilting my head back to the mild breeze, but continue to marvel at her unshakable attention. I wonder what she sees in this neighborhood.