Tragic
The wind was blowing pretty hard -- enough to make us shiver and zip up our sweaters while we waited for the cabs to pull around. She was telling me about a coworker's baby shower and I was pretending to be interested, but really I was people watching behind her. A couple, the man's arm wrapped tightly around the girl's shoulders, shielding her from the wind. A gaggle of college students, decked out in green beads and hats, obviously headed for the parade. And the woman. She was old, if I were to guess, probably in her early seventies. I didn't pay her much mind until it happened.
It happened fast. So fast and only in my peripheral vision, that if she hadn't cried out, I might have thought I imagined it. She fell. She fell hard. One moment she was on the curb of the carport, the next she was lying face down in the middle of the street. Her cry was that of a little girl, a howl filled with shock, fear, and pain. For a moment, nobody moved. We stood frozen in horror, staring at her prone body. Then we went to her. She was crying. Blood pooled on the street below her face. I got to her first.
"Ma'am? Are you all right?"
"I hit my nose," she sobbed. Blood was still pouring in the street. She still hadn't moved.
"I know," I said, grasping her arm. Cars were coming. We needed to get her up. By this time, several other bystanders were around. We pulled her up. Blood poured down her face, running out of her nostrils, tributaries criss-crossing down the hand she was using to cover her face. She was shaken, tears still coming down her cheeks. Someone handed her some tissues, which she hurriedly stuffed against her nose. A woman I hadn't noticed before had whipped out her phone. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"
"My nose," the woman cried, by way of response. More tissues. "Are you here by yourself?" the woman with the phone asked.
"No," said someone behind us. "She's my wife." Behind the group of us, was a man. He was shorter than she was, balding, calm. He walked up to her and tried to pull her away from us. "It's fine," he said. "She's my wife." The woman nodded her head, blood still rushing from her nose. Man, I felt like saying, where were you a minute ago? And why aren't you helping her now? He turned to her then, taking her arm and slowly leading her away, making reassuring waving motions at us. We stood confused. One of the college kids said loudly, "I told them inside what happened. They're sending a first aid person."
"Fine," the husband responded shortly, still pulling her away slowly. He seemed embarrassed by his clumsy wife, irritated at our concern. I sort of wanted to push him away from her, take her and hug her, clean her up and calm her down. Buy her a cup of coffee, get her settled. The first aid attendant appeared then, pushing a wheel chair. I was unnerved. In ten years, that could be my mom, I thought, the memory of her initial cry echoing in my ears. We left her then, in the hands of the first aid attendant and her husband.
Besides, our cabs had arrived.
Funny
I turned to my mom. "Not bad for a Sunday," I said. "Brunch, King Tut, Science Museum, Giant Heart, and now a Parade." We were watching the tail end of the St. Patrick's day parade as it curved around Logan's Square.
"All right!" was her enthusiastic response.
We watched as pixie little Irish dancers skipped by and string bands strummed Danny Boy. And then, an entire army of men in kilts and aran sweaters trooped by.
"Oh, I think I can die happy right now," I jokingly told my mom. She laughed and nudged me. Just then, he looked at me. He was dashing, all dark hair and broad shoulders, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. He wiggled his eyebrows, hoisted his leg up and coyly lifted the hem of his kilt up his thigh. I giggled and clapped. "WOOOO!" I screamed* like a drunk cheerleader. That was all the encouragement he needed. He lifted the kilt hem higher, higher, higher until there it was, full on display: His Wee Danny Dublin. Only it wasn't so, uh, wee. God has indeed blessed this Irishman, as it were. I didn't know what else to do, so I just continued clapping and laughing at him. He dropped his kilt back down and continued marching on.
I turned to my mother, thinking that she was going to be all shocked and horrified at this man's indecent exposure and my encouragement. Instead, she looked thoughtful. "You know," she said, "this is the end of the parade route. We could just follow them and see if..."
It was my turn to be shocked. "Mother! You're a happily married woman!"
"Well jeeze, I'm married, not dead Kate."
*Shut up, you. I've been single for too long, and besides, what would you have done? Exactly. You know you would have done it too.
The wind was blowing pretty hard -- enough to make us shiver and zip up our sweaters while we waited for the cabs to pull around. She was telling me about a coworker's baby shower and I was pretending to be interested, but really I was people watching behind her. A couple, the man's arm wrapped tightly around the girl's shoulders, shielding her from the wind. A gaggle of college students, decked out in green beads and hats, obviously headed for the parade. And the woman. She was old, if I were to guess, probably in her early seventies. I didn't pay her much mind until it happened.
It happened fast. So fast and only in my peripheral vision, that if she hadn't cried out, I might have thought I imagined it. She fell. She fell hard. One moment she was on the curb of the carport, the next she was lying face down in the middle of the street. Her cry was that of a little girl, a howl filled with shock, fear, and pain. For a moment, nobody moved. We stood frozen in horror, staring at her prone body. Then we went to her. She was crying. Blood pooled on the street below her face. I got to her first.
"Ma'am? Are you all right?"
"I hit my nose," she sobbed. Blood was still pouring in the street. She still hadn't moved.
"I know," I said, grasping her arm. Cars were coming. We needed to get her up. By this time, several other bystanders were around. We pulled her up. Blood poured down her face, running out of her nostrils, tributaries criss-crossing down the hand she was using to cover her face. She was shaken, tears still coming down her cheeks. Someone handed her some tissues, which she hurriedly stuffed against her nose. A woman I hadn't noticed before had whipped out her phone. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?"
"My nose," the woman cried, by way of response. More tissues. "Are you here by yourself?" the woman with the phone asked.
"No," said someone behind us. "She's my wife." Behind the group of us, was a man. He was shorter than she was, balding, calm. He walked up to her and tried to pull her away from us. "It's fine," he said. "She's my wife." The woman nodded her head, blood still rushing from her nose. Man, I felt like saying, where were you a minute ago? And why aren't you helping her now? He turned to her then, taking her arm and slowly leading her away, making reassuring waving motions at us. We stood confused. One of the college kids said loudly, "I told them inside what happened. They're sending a first aid person."
"Fine," the husband responded shortly, still pulling her away slowly. He seemed embarrassed by his clumsy wife, irritated at our concern. I sort of wanted to push him away from her, take her and hug her, clean her up and calm her down. Buy her a cup of coffee, get her settled. The first aid attendant appeared then, pushing a wheel chair. I was unnerved. In ten years, that could be my mom, I thought, the memory of her initial cry echoing in my ears. We left her then, in the hands of the first aid attendant and her husband.
Besides, our cabs had arrived.
Funny
I turned to my mom. "Not bad for a Sunday," I said. "Brunch, King Tut, Science Museum, Giant Heart, and now a Parade." We were watching the tail end of the St. Patrick's day parade as it curved around Logan's Square.
"All right!" was her enthusiastic response.
We watched as pixie little Irish dancers skipped by and string bands strummed Danny Boy. And then, an entire army of men in kilts and aran sweaters trooped by.
"Oh, I think I can die happy right now," I jokingly told my mom. She laughed and nudged me. Just then, he looked at me. He was dashing, all dark hair and broad shoulders, his eyes shielded by sunglasses. He wiggled his eyebrows, hoisted his leg up and coyly lifted the hem of his kilt up his thigh. I giggled and clapped. "WOOOO!" I screamed* like a drunk cheerleader. That was all the encouragement he needed. He lifted the kilt hem higher, higher, higher until there it was, full on display: His Wee Danny Dublin. Only it wasn't so, uh, wee. God has indeed blessed this Irishman, as it were. I didn't know what else to do, so I just continued clapping and laughing at him. He dropped his kilt back down and continued marching on.
I turned to my mother, thinking that she was going to be all shocked and horrified at this man's indecent exposure and my encouragement. Instead, she looked thoughtful. "You know," she said, "this is the end of the parade route. We could just follow them and see if..."
It was my turn to be shocked. "Mother! You're a happily married woman!"
"Well jeeze, I'm married, not dead Kate."
*Shut up, you. I've been single for too long, and besides, what would you have done? Exactly. You know you would have done it too.
Labels: Miscellania, Observations
1 Comments:
Yay! Penis!
That is about the level I'm operating on today.
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