She collected trinkets like most old ladies collected cats. Big, small, round, tall. They were spread all around her apartment from one end of her outside space in the cornflower blue single story complex, down the side of her end unit, and around the back. When she opened her door, you could just catch a glimpse of the space inside. What little space there was, that is. The chaos continued into her apartment. Statues of frogs and fairies spilled out of her doorway, teasing the pavement with the closeness of their presence.
The cranky old property manager hated her trinkets almost as much as he hated children, especially mine. The arguments could be heard all the way across the parking lot in my apartment. Her voice was rich in accent, his dripped with disdain. He told her all her lovelies had to go or she had to go. I heard the lilt of her voice as she sobbed. I watched from the seclusion of my window as he walked away, leaving her trembling and weeping at her door.
She had this way of clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth, as if she were calling her chickens to her, that made her endearing. I watched as she stepped cautiously out of her house, her cane nowhere in sight. Her clucking grew increasingly louder as she fussed over her stone children. The garden gnome, her silent sentry, took a pat to the head cheerfully. Bambi stood frozen in her embrace. I watched as a ball of fur came rolling out of her doorway, intent on rubbing himself against the white column, the wheel less bicycle, the half dead potted plant. She clucked a bit louder and the ball of fur hastened back into the house. With a tender kiss blown from her lips, she said goodbye to her children and closed the door to her apartment.
She loved the children of the neighborhood, always calling them both over for some baked good she had concocted just for them while they were at school that day. They never seemed to mind that her still mostly black hair hung in greasy strings around her thin skeletal face or that her nose had a slight crook to it. What she lacked in height, she made up for in animation. This, and the daily sweets, is what the children loved about her. They were willing slaves on the weekends as she slowly labored to restore the outside of her world back to the boring state it was supposed to be. Too quickly gone was the makeshift garden; the empty space heaving in the absence of the silent guardians.
Once the cold weather hit, she remained indoors, and her call to the children became less frequent. No more were we regaled by stories of her childhood in Romania, her adventures on the road as a teen, and the love of a marriage that survived the death of three children and several wars. She quietly faded away in our memories until Christmas morning when the children would open the front door and find a left over stocking on their doorstep like an after thought from Santa.
We were graced with this woman's presence for the one year we lived there, and while my daughter may not remember her, every time I look at the velvety soft green and burgundy stocking, I remember this little old lady whose only fault was that she collected too much junk and the way she touched our lives when we needed it most.
![Mama’s Losin’ It]()
I chose prompt #3: a memorable neighbor
--Stephanie, AKA The Drama Mama
The cranky old property manager hated her trinkets almost as much as he hated children, especially mine. The arguments could be heard all the way across the parking lot in my apartment. Her voice was rich in accent, his dripped with disdain. He told her all her lovelies had to go or she had to go. I heard the lilt of her voice as she sobbed. I watched from the seclusion of my window as he walked away, leaving her trembling and weeping at her door.
She had this way of clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth, as if she were calling her chickens to her, that made her endearing. I watched as she stepped cautiously out of her house, her cane nowhere in sight. Her clucking grew increasingly louder as she fussed over her stone children. The garden gnome, her silent sentry, took a pat to the head cheerfully. Bambi stood frozen in her embrace. I watched as a ball of fur came rolling out of her doorway, intent on rubbing himself against the white column, the wheel less bicycle, the half dead potted plant. She clucked a bit louder and the ball of fur hastened back into the house. With a tender kiss blown from her lips, she said goodbye to her children and closed the door to her apartment.
She loved the children of the neighborhood, always calling them both over for some baked good she had concocted just for them while they were at school that day. They never seemed to mind that her still mostly black hair hung in greasy strings around her thin skeletal face or that her nose had a slight crook to it. What she lacked in height, she made up for in animation. This, and the daily sweets, is what the children loved about her. They were willing slaves on the weekends as she slowly labored to restore the outside of her world back to the boring state it was supposed to be. Too quickly gone was the makeshift garden; the empty space heaving in the absence of the silent guardians.
Once the cold weather hit, she remained indoors, and her call to the children became less frequent. No more were we regaled by stories of her childhood in Romania, her adventures on the road as a teen, and the love of a marriage that survived the death of three children and several wars. She quietly faded away in our memories until Christmas morning when the children would open the front door and find a left over stocking on their doorstep like an after thought from Santa.
We were graced with this woman's presence for the one year we lived there, and while my daughter may not remember her, every time I look at the velvety soft green and burgundy stocking, I remember this little old lady whose only fault was that she collected too much junk and the way she touched our lives when we needed it most.
I chose prompt #3: a memorable neighbor
--Stephanie, AKA The Drama Mama
