Ohara Epigram

The old woman sat in the front of the restaurant, looking out the front door.  The snow was beginning to flurry, but it wouldn't amount to much.  She'd seen far worse.

How many days add up to 98 years?  On how many of those days had there been snow?  How many rainy, or clear?  She'd seen tens of thousands of people pass by on the other side of the glass, some stopping, most not.  Did she long to follow any of them, a man who who caught her eye, or a girl of enviable dress?  Did she wonder at their lives, lived worlds away from this restaurant born in the days before travelers became tourists? 

On the wall above her were the framed photos of two women balancing baskets on their heads, once a common scene here in the village of Ohara.  I pointed at one and asked if this was her photo.  She smiled, eyes and all.

I asked her how she stayed so fit, so healthy.  She leaned in close and said only, "Work."  Then as if to prove it, she lifted my tray and its weight of dishes, and tottered with them held in one hand toward the kitchen.   


On the turntable:  "Red Hot + Bothered"