A young woman in a black calico dress with onyx-black hair knocked on our door.
She was lithe, with slim lips and penetrating green eyes.
“Your house is wondrous,” she says. “I wonder, could I see inside?”
My 14-year-old daughter was caught off-guard and let her in. The woman wandered
around the ground floor, touching everything lightly.
When she wanted to climb the stairs to the bedrooms, my daughter stopped her.
“Of course,” the stranger said. “Too far.”
She turned and went out, stood on the welcome mat.
“This is how we should all live,” she said.
When I got home from work my daughter was in tears. She told me she had recognised the
woman, but couldn’t place her.
That weekend I was watering the patio pot plants when the black-haired woman came up
our driveway.
“Watering generously,” she said.
“What are you all about?” I said, turning off the hose.
“I’m about to give you some advice,” she said.
I looked her up and down as she scanned the house and garden. She was
barefoot, had silver bands on each toe.
“Never mind,” she said, and walked away.
I called out after her, “What do you want from us?”
She stopped at the footpath, turned to face me.
“I’m undecided,” she said.
Comments