They Don’t Know They’re Dead: The Little Old Lady from Pasadena

My this is nice. People really take care of their lawns here. A nice clean, swept sidewalk. The sun is shining…a few clouds here and there. It might rain later, I suppose, but you can’t have everything. I have my silk dress on. It’s dry clean only. I don’t know if I would have bought it if I knew that, but it’s always nice for Sunday. What day is it? I must have lost track. It must be Sunday. I don’t see anyone, not even a car. Just the sidewalk, the lawns, the grass clipped close, a nice little row of houses. I know this street. I think it’s Myrtle’s street. They must be at church. I’m late, I have to walk faster. Good think I have these comfortable walking shoes. Black flats with a good thick rubber sole. I have to walk faster.

Walking is easy today, my knees are not bothering me. I’m moving so quickly. It’s like when I was a girl, learning to drive, that old Studebaker. I just had to tip the top of my foot on the gas and away I’d speed, down that Bakersfield road, that old dusty desert road. The sky on the horizon was faint blue and smudged, crushed. That was the road to Pasadena, and there was nothing on it but the road to Pasadena. A few hawks, sometimes, little black specks. Where is the church? I think it’s one street over. If there were someone to ask, I would ask, but there’s nobody to ask. Lucky it’s so easy to walk.