Woman, elegant in the beauteous wisdomic creases of time and energy spent all these years wuietly observing the eccentricities of her husband, sits in her black shawl intricately laced with embroidered roses, skimming through pictures of her daughter and her daughter's daughters.
Woman, you are so much more than your children.
The overhead music turns to jazz, with a trumpet swaying and jarring its load, a tempestuous shakeaway of the calm acoustic almost-tango that had bee playing when I came in for my Italian roast.
Two women, brunette and slim, in jogging attire and the skin going slack on their legs, bruising from being mid-40s, ask for pumpkin spice lattes. It's that time of year. The end of summer and the hint of fall in the air. Around here when the temperature suddenly dips to 78 we tend to whip out the Halloween displays.
The elegant woman's elegant husband returns with their coffees. He is portly bellied, with a thick white Vandyke that snows down to the open top button of his shirt. A perfect archetype of a leatherworker making embroidered cowboy belts and hats in Santa Fe.
We are all so much more than these bodies. We are a sum of all these moments.
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