She seems to exist in only two possible situations: on the back of a Harley, gray hair poking out of her motorcycle helmut, or standing on the sidewalk, somewhere between confused and straining to recall where she was going when she walked out the door.
She must be 80, at least. Her white hair is bobbed and frames her tan, wrinkled face, which is speckled with age spots and the corporal paraphernalia of a lifelong smoker. She likely has dementia, but I’m no doctor. She waves every time I walk past, with the innocence that only the really young or the really old have the capacity to possess. Continue reading