the woman was mourning that which had not come to pass, yet, but was inevitable. her friend was dying, had already been dying for years before the call from the emergency room nurse came. She needed to go right back "a doctor needed to talk to her immediately, test results were in, and there were some 'anomalies'". intuitively everyone who heard the story knew it was a bad thing to have "them" call back. as far as the woman could tell from the disjointed retelling, later, the cancer had metastasized to a number of her friend's organs, its deadly fingers slipping through her body in a relentless pursuit of death.
the woman found herself, late at night, on the street with her friend and she didn't know whether to cry or laugh. they were four, on a mission, women who had know each other all their lives. the act they were preparing to commit was, technically, illegal. it mattered not though, it had been done before. in fact, she-who-was-soon-to-be-dead had chosen it as her moral duty some time before and had done it on a semi regular basis since. the woman found it ironic that her friend, who would never be described as a social activist in the common sense of that descriptor, was compelled to do this one thing, this one thing for the good of the community generally and for the children of the neighbourhood specifically.
the neighbourhood was now considered "inner city". a helicopter thumped overhead and they paused to let it pass. with calm resolve the women committed their act of civil disobedience. they moved with experienced ease that belied their suburban facades, it could have been orchestrated; they stopped and changed direction with each coming car. they moved off casually when the helicopter returned, and briefly hovered over them, its heat-seeking camera trying to discern whether they were friend or foe.
when they were finished, and went away, the white lines of the new cross walk they had painted glistened in the cold night air. the phone calls and petitions had been to no avail and the dying one's outrage had been strong.
the woman knew that she would be back, to repaint the lines, after her friend was gone.
the woman found herself, late at night, on the street with her friend and she didn't know whether to cry or laugh. they were four, on a mission, women who had know each other all their lives. the act they were preparing to commit was, technically, illegal. it mattered not though, it had been done before. in fact, she-who-was-soon-to-be-dead had chosen it as her moral duty some time before and had done it on a semi regular basis since. the woman found it ironic that her friend, who would never be described as a social activist in the common sense of that descriptor, was compelled to do this one thing, this one thing for the good of the community generally and for the children of the neighbourhood specifically.
the neighbourhood was now considered "inner city". a helicopter thumped overhead and they paused to let it pass. with calm resolve the women committed their act of civil disobedience. they moved with experienced ease that belied their suburban facades, it could have been orchestrated; they stopped and changed direction with each coming car. they moved off casually when the helicopter returned, and briefly hovered over them, its heat-seeking camera trying to discern whether they were friend or foe.
when they were finished, and went away, the white lines of the new cross walk they had painted glistened in the cold night air. the phone calls and petitions had been to no avail and the dying one's outrage had been strong.
the woman knew that she would be back, to repaint the lines, after her friend was gone.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
pb:
faith in what, praytell? i have no faith.
kundalini:
Happy Valentine's day, my Canadian sweet... 