She has avoided capture for the past few days. I have been less-than-diligent in my morning pursuit at her favorite coffeeshop. All the baristas in black aprons + visors know her. They smile when I mention her name. Helen.
My Helen of Troy I wish to capture and take on my boat to navigate history. Her last name is still unknown.
4-pronged walker and plastic bag filled with god-knows-what. Dressed like its 30 below.
She hands me a girl scout moment as I go to lock up my bike:
"Will you walk me across the street?"
This as my dehydrated roommate was eight seconds from passing out back on Lincoln St.
I ask if I can carry anything and she protests saying only that she wants someone with her- trusting the traffic in this town to slow and stop as much as I do, which is to say not at all.
Escorting her finally to caribou coffee's door, she confides for the second time amongst all the teasers for old stories pouring out of her: "I took the spurs off the bullets during the war."
I can only guess it was the 2nd World war, which makes me think about this country having been in war more than out. During the whole of its 230+ year existence. The 3rd one well underway.
Which only allows for a big history hard-on raging in my brain that wonders why in the hell I went to the gym rather than sat down with granny Helen and demanded stories.
But hunt her down again I fail to do, it being a thing that would get me up at crack-of-five to be at the damn java joint in time to catch her wizened bespectacled irresistibly magnificent talkative smile.
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