There is an old, wrinkled lady who lives in a big, green house next to mine. She never comes out, and her house frowns over my street like a monster from a nightmare. Sometimes I see her grandchildren, still chubby and baby-like, although they are probably well into their twenties by now.
I meet her for the first time in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, and she tells me that her ankles aren’t like they used to be. She trips over broken English, and a strong European accent leaks through the cracks in her quiet voice. We talk, properly talk, instead of watching each other fetch the mail from our bay windows. We are both early, and the doctor is not in yet, so she tells me about Greece. She tells me about dancing in the cool nights. She tells me that her husband loves her, even if he can’t remember it, and it sounds more like she is trying to convince herself. We roll up our pants and show each other our weak and injured ankles, and she laughs- a sound like tinkling bells.
“Look”, she says, “we are both old women!” I laugh along with her. It is then, when suddenly I realize that she is not old. No one ever grows old. Her heart, her eyes, even her ankles are young and alight with a bright, excited glow. She smiles at me before her doctor calls her in, and I see the fire burning behind her eyes. She tells me her name is Neola when she returns to the waiting room; she is named after her grandmother who was an eagle of a woman.
The next day, she goes outside to fetch the mail, and I walk outside to greet her.
