I Should Have Given It to Her

This past April, I was flying back from a business trip in Atlanta when a loud, obnoxious 35-40 year  old woman was bombastically speaking to a stranger as they took their seat in the row in front of me.

I didn’t like her demeanor. She stayed standing too long in the airplane’s busy aisle as people were boarding and spoke loudly. Her loose hanging tank top gave me a glimpse of her unshaven underarms and there was nothing about her that was even remotely physically pleasing. All I noticed was that she liked talking about herself and was the type that knew everything about whatever the topic of conversation was.

With self-satisfying contempt, I prepared to become absorbed within my music and drift off into my own world for a couple hours. But unconsciously, I began to listen to what they were actually talking about.

It was sad.

I was touched by what this woman – whom I had prematurely and thoughtlessly tagged as annoying – was talking about. The 2 simple lines popped into my thoughts:

She’s an artist, she’s artistic;
Her son is silent, he’s autistic

That pleased me for a moment. As I again tried to relax and self absorb, more came to me rather quickly so I jotted it down. After re-reading what had surprisingly become an entire piece, I thought maybe I would give it to her in the hope that it might cheer her up. I imagined being in her difficult position: on the way to her autistic son’s hospital bed after a terrible accident and receiving a note from a stranger who had overheard her story.

Although I felt she might find it disconcerting, I decided that this is what I should be doing. I even thought it might give her a stronger feeling of optimism – something that she appeared to have in abundance, but in reality lacked as a vulnerable artist and hurting parent (my perception, of course).

After arriving at the terminal in Newark I followed behind her about 15 feet, still debating internally whether to give it to her. I decided that if she turned around I would give it to her and just walk on.

She never turned around. So this is for her:

She’s an artist; she is artistic
Her son is silent; he’s autistic
She paints her pictures that speak of things – cause her son won’t
Her pictures do the talking for them both

Now they’re in the hospital tending to his wounds
Her pictures will forever change
The landscapes, city views and colorful scenes
Will now become sad, deranged

Now they’re in the hospital tending to his wounds
She worries they may not leave together
But their days of creating silent dreams
Will not succumb to bad weather

Their days of living silent dreams
will certainly get better

About Yorick von Fortinbras

YvF is a writer, musician that stays sane by being creative while navigating the demands of life, looking for those holes where a spark can get through.
This entry was posted in commentary, communication, Creativity, Existence, family, friends, health, Ideas, love, lyrics, mind, Observations, Philosophy, poetry, relationships, short stories, Travel, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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