Chapter IX
At the corner of Seventh Avenue, above the entrance to the
train station, a path I’d taken repeatedly so as to accomplish it
blind-folded, I found myself approaching the stands of an all-night vegetable
store, which I hadn’t noticed repeatedly, and spotted Sarah.
She was touching and handling various pieces of fruit before placing them into a basket, which she held close to her side. She'd looked to me to be quite serene, pleased to be by herself, which she often was but wasn't often pleased by it. She wore her day clothes, a bicolor dress of rose and gray, a continuum of her thirst for muted shades.
She was touching and handling various pieces of fruit before placing them into a basket, which she held close to her side. She'd looked to me to be quite serene, pleased to be by herself, which she often was but wasn't often pleased by it. She wore her day clothes, a bicolor dress of rose and gray, a continuum of her thirst for muted shades.
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| Photo courtesy of Mesut Ilgim http://www.trekearth.com/members/mesutilgim/ |
I'd
walked past the apples and the out-of-season melons and pushed through the hanging
strips of plastic that kept the store's temperature moderately warm and which
eliminated the need for formal portals and doors. I'd walked up to her and stood at her side.
"Playing
the West Side homemaker?" I asked her.
I was happy to discover Sarah when she least expected me."Don't step on that melon. It's mine," she said. "Where are you coming from? Or will I be sorry for asking?"
(later on...as Walter and Sarah are walking home...)
We'd veered off the sidewalk. Sarah went into a small grocery store which was ready to close for the night. I'd inched my way closer to the store's front window, in order to see what Sarah was up to. A woman within came over to the window, untied a thin, nylon rope and let down a set of venetian blinds that cut off my visibility. She'd left me standing there, looking at nothing. I'd turned and stepped back onto the sidewalk and waited for Sarah. She'd emerged into the night with an open package of chocolate cookies.
"These cookies are exactly like the kind my mother used to make," she cried, almost the epitome of cliché.
"Are you hungry?" I asked her, resuming our journey homeward.
"No," she replied. "I just wanted them. I love these cookies. But don't tell anybody about this; I'm not supposed to eat these anymore. I've become allergic to chocolate. Don't tell anyone I bought them." By which she meant don't tell Owen.
"It's the memory, Walt," she cupped the package against her. "It's just the memory."
[My friend Theresa has an almost Upanishadic reverence for cookies, although cake is a wonderful thing, too... Her love for her mother and the kinds of things her mother used to do, like cook and bake and play the piano, that brought great waves of comfort to Theresa, not only as a little girl but as a young woman as well, was/is inspiring to me. I wanted to make Walter and Sarah secret sharers in their own right, and of course incorporate the value of memory as the glue which binds them: And so I took something from Theresa's and my past, a simple visit to a Korean greengrocer and a stop at a small market. Memory is oftentimes, in my household, one of the prized glories of the garden, the charm that holds friendships together, holds personalities together, even when the memory is "as heavy as a mountain."]
