Whistle.windz

I’ve never particularly been fond of gray.  It’s a little shabby, a little rubbish, a little boring.  As a backdrop for buildings wrapped in red nets and scaffolding, trees losing their green leaves, thousands of people scurrying along bustling sidewalks, vendors of all kinds (including cupcakes, chunky jewelry, and artisan lamp shades), mechanical toys stabbing the clouds, giant planes whizzing through the air, and brilliant architecture, however, gray is a little less menacing.  The sky is always gray in London town; I don’t really mind it either.  The way the sun presses through the clouds in the morning or how a giant brick building towers over the neighborhood gives the gray landscape a much kinder feeling.

In the gray, today, I watched a woman with a pale face and a blue scarf around her head hobble over the broken sidewalk of Sydney Street with a basket in her wrinkled grip.  She moved slowly like she was thinking of an old friend with every step.  Her eyes would wander from the uneven earth to the windows of the cafes and then back to the ground before repeating the routine glance with every step.  While she hobbled along, she would occasionally stop and stare into a pastry or coffee shop and take a moment to hum a little tune to herself or for the people inside and out of the cold.  Every time she whistled the wind would pick up and blow her little scarf fervently across her mouth and mute the little song—not even the wind wanted to listen to the wandering little lady.  She turned, for the fourth time or so, away from the window of Carluccio’s and looked over the faces before her before continuing her slow journey home.  As she passed the bench where I sat and watched, she looked me in the eye and smiled.

She was crying, just a little.  Was it the wind?  Was it the cold?  Was it that no one would stop and listen to her whistle?  I wanted to ask, but she turned away and continued the trek home.  Her little burgundy coat just rounded the corner when I hopped on the bus.  As the monstrous transport took the corner, where just seconds ago a little old woman had wandered, the sidewalk was empty beside a few fallen leaves of holly.  Perhaps she had found warmth in the gated garden behind the house on the corner or maybe grabbed a taxi for the rest of her trip home.  I like to think that she finally found a listener and whistled her way into the gray sky.

Following my small moment with the lady in red, I happened upon a coffee shop sampling some Italian espresso just outside my residence hall.  The aroma was alluring, if not a little burnt and caramel scented.  The first sip was good.  The second was better.  After a thank you and a smile I turned to walk the quarter block to residence hall.  Crossing King’s Road, I rounded the curve at Manresa Road and took in the enormity of the IES Building; it’s by far the tallest building in this part of Chelsea.

Behind me: I heard a whistle on the current of the wind.