Hippie Chick Wounds

Art: Bill Hume, Hippy Chick

An elderly California hippie-chick lady crossed my life path, today.

She sported tan leathery skin and blonde sun kissed tresses.

She donned hot pants and a tube top characteristic of a young woman in her twenties or thirties.

Pat drove a sporty jazzy white whip—not your regular granny can.

She preferred friendships with people several years her junior.

She took to me like a fish to water—chronologically she was much older than my Mom.

Periodically, I popped in on Pat for tea while I played with her slightly temperamental furry cats.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression; Pat wasn’t your typical elderly cat lady.

We’d talk for hours—mostly I listened.

She felt displaced living in such a conservative Texas town—west coast waves flowed through her veins.

Some years ago, the man of her dreams swept her off her feet making her world complete.

Theirs was a May-December relationship—today they’d say he was a cub my cougar friend tamed.

Upon speaking his name, her face transformed into a canvas brushed with bittersweet strokes from a love long gone.

Emotionally stuck unable to move on, forward, or through, I pitied Pat.

I’m not exactly sure how it ended between the two—though it never ended in her mind.

I just remember her sadness from not knowing his whereabouts.

Their break tore her heart to pieces—pieces never gathered.

Innumerable pieces lay scattered around her home—draping her windows, covering her bed, setting her table, and serving tea.

Still she pinned over him all the years I knew her.

Her pain, stemmed from his absence, still chills me, haunts me, and hurts.

Her morose pain placed a disconcerting strain on our friendship.

Her perception of her ideal love ceased, causing great pain to ooze poisonous venom all over others.

To my knowledge, she never recovered from his absence.

I wonder whatever happened to my poor, sad, hippie-chick neighbor friend with her infected oozing love wounds…

©2012 Nesi Writes