The other night we happened to pass by the rusty and leaning tin and wood building where the old lady with the old lady with the crooked back lives.
It was dark as we drove slowly by. The light that filtered from the dusty second floor window illuminated a few cracked flower pots below. The tomato plants told me that she was still there.
In my mind’s eye I saw her sitting alone at an old wooden zataku that was covered with a yellowed but clean plastic lace table cloth. None of the threadbare zabuton matched. Neither did the fabric edging on the eight sagging tatami mats in the little room where she sat surrounded by old mismatched furniture. Several old calendars were tacked randomly on the walls. None displayed the correct date however the photos decorated drab plaster walls.
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