A Saint

There's a woman who sits alone in the woods. Well, I say alone...

    There are, of course, all kinds of creatures. Mostly sleeping. Some out for something to chew. 

    Winter, obviously.

    And the woman is cold.

    But she is having an enjoyable conversation. With the wood. She talks to it. It talks back. She is learning a host of things, which makes it worth the cold.

    It takes some time for the wood to say all the things it needs to say.

    Then the woman walks home.

    She lights a fire. She brews tea. She sits in her armchair. And thinks for awhile. About the wood. And the wood's problems. About her own. 

    She picks up a book.

    The pages brush her fingers as her mind narrows, expands, rests.

    The woman goes to sleep with a smile. 

    The next day, she thinks about the wood. She writes a story, then a letter. She mends her clothes and sweeps her floors and patches up the drafts so that she can write stories instead of reports. She makes her lunch. She adds to her story. She walks through the wood, but it's quiet today, having talked itself out. A family of squirrels show her their grown-up babies.

    She walks home, and lights a fire, and brews her tea.

    There is a knock at the door. Company, of which, quite naturally the woman is reluctant. But company leaves, which is it's own kind of satisfaction. The woman goes to sleep smiling.

    Her story the next day is filled with thoughts of company and squirrel families. It's no good. She throws it out. 

    Something brushes by her door. The scrawniest cat that can scarcely stand, and makes no sound. She lets it in, of course. She has time. At the beginning of each week, she roasts chicken to last. She feeds the cat a small bit and puts down water. Then some more chicken, and on it goes.

    A month has past. The cat comes and goes, but mostly comes. It is a he cat, and, though not keen on laps, is quite keen on rubbing past ankles, meowing in conversation as he tells about his daily travels. The woman thinks a lot about cats, lately. There's a lot of stories in cats, she finds. She smiles more now, and thinks more. And talks aloud more. She writes more.

    She goes to sleep at night, though, in the same way she always has. Smiling and thinking that it's a grand thing to have enough. 

     

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