The Way it Works

There was a little girl and an old woman. They were shrouded in black. The woman had on a veil that covered her face entirely. Only a shadow of two peering eyes appeared through the mesh. The woman’s gray and wispy hair was tied in a tight bun. Her dress was plain, and stopped just below her knees. She stood facing the direction of the soon to be arriving bus. The little girl also had on a black dress. It seemed to be identical to the old woman’s, only much smaller. Her hair, though, was not tied in a tight bun, but in a loose ponytail. It was held by a black ribbon tied into a bow. There was no veil to hide the girl’s face, but there was no need for one. The girl’s expression was solemn and had been that way for quite sometime. Her eyes were focused and course. They seemed far too weathered to belong to someone so young. She had a determined glare, almost angered. Yet, respectful all the same. She too faced the direction of the now late bus. The girl began to click her heels against the sidewalk in anticipation. The woman turned her head at this. She bore a hole into the girl with her shadowy stare. The girl stopped clicking her heels, and turned back towards the road.

The little girl screamed in delight as her father jumped out from behind the couch. She had a feeling he had been hiding there, but she hadn’t been entirely sure. Upon further inspection, it seemed she was indeed correct. All morning their game had raged on, both players wishing to emerge victorious. So, again, for the twelfth time, it was the girl’s turn to hide. Yet, the girl’s Father was tired, and he had much work to do. At least, that’s what he told her. This meant that it was time to go to her Grandmother’s. Her Grandmother took care of her when her Father would go to work. Her father would work at the strangest times. Sometimes he would be called in at noon and sometimes in the middle of the night. He never complained, though. Whenever it became overbearing or too much, he would think of his daughter, his little girl, and it would all fade away. Yet, the girl had no opinion on her father’s work either way, or of his own emotions concerning it; she just liked when her Father would come home so they could play again.

Her Grandmother was a pleasant lady. She loved her Grandmother, just as all children should, but she didn’t really like her very much. Her Grandmother was strict. Her Grandmother would make her do things that she did not like to do. Her Grandmother would teach her things and tell her about “The world.” She had no intention of caring about the world just yet. But, as it were, her Grandmother would force her to. Her Grandmother would say things like, “There are only two kinds of people: you and me.” Her Grandmother would tell her things like, “Don’t let anyone else see who you really are. Keep that in a special place. As long as you do that, then no one can ever hurt you.” Her Grandmother would teach her things like “Proper etiquette.” Her grandmother would teach her to stand up straight and fold her hands at the dinner table. Her grandmother would teach her which fork to use and how to pronounce words like, “on·o·mat·o·poe·ia.” And, of course, to “never click one’s heels at formal occasions. One should maintain one’s self in a formal, matter-of-fact style at all costs.” The girl didn’t really understand any of this, though, as far as she was concerned it would never matter.

Her Grandmother looked at her one day and sighed. The girl was a bit confused. Her Grandmother usually looked upon her with nothing but pride and, of course, love. But this look was different; this look was somewhat, well, revealing. Being immersed in constant lesson, the girl recognized this and could not help but inquire about it. Yet, before she could, her Grandmother spoke. “Did I ever tell you about your Mother?” A bit surprised, the girl shook her head no. No one had ever mentioned her Mother to her. She had asked her Father once, but he had said that there was nothing to say. The Grandmother again released a tired sigh and then slowly began to speak.

“Your Mother was a wonderful woman.” Her Grandmother bent over for a moment, pretending to adjust her collar as she brushed away a tear. “Do you know what love is Samantha?” The girl, Samantha, pondered the question briefly, and then nodded, saying, “Love is how we feel about each other, right?” The Grandmother smiled, but it seemed masked in tragedy. “Yes, that is a way of describing love. But what I mean to say is, do you understand what love is?” Samantha supposed she didn’t understand, for, to her, the questions were the same. “I didn’t think so. Love, Samantha, is a kind of connection. Love is not entirely a decision, but it is a frame of mind. Love, Samantha, is the single most powerful being there is. And when it is in its truest form, when love is most absolute, it can accomplish whatever it desires.” Samantha frowned at this statement. Again, her Grandmother had gone off on some tangent that she didn’t understand. “I thought this was about my mother?” Samantha glared at her Grandmother indignantly. “Ah, yes,” her Grandmother said grinning slightly, “Your mother. Well, your Mother loved your Father, Samantha. But she had to go away, she was sick and was forced to leave him.” Samantha felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Her Grandmother noticed, but continued, “But she loved him more than anything, Samantha. She loved him so much that she knew she couldn’t leave him, even though she had to…” Samantha’s eyes brightened at this. Perhaps this could mean what she had hoped it to. “…So she found a way to stay here with him. She found a way to love him all over again. Do you know how Samantha?” Samantha could hardly contain her excitement, but she managed to choke out a weak, “No.” “You. She loves him through you.” Samantha nodded and retired to the bathroom so as to hide her true self, as her Grandmother had so often suggested.

Samantha often wondered about what her Grandmother had told her that day. Even as she waited for the bus, awaiting the unspeakably inevitable, she wondered. She wondered what her grandmother had meant by it all; her Grandmother always held some kind of agenda. She wondered why love was so important, and she wondered why she couldn’t just stop thinking about it. She wondered if she was her father’s love too. She wondered if she was her Father’s way of still loving his Mother. But then she stopped thinking. It had hurt too much, and it was not proper to hurt. She may have been her parent’s love, but that was all. She had no love of her own, no love that belonged to her, at least, not anymore. She existed for everyone else. She knew that then. But, again, what did it matter? So, she looked forward and stared ahead. And she waited for her bus that was never going to stop being late.

A guy