The root beer fizzed quietly, causing the ice to clink against the glass, the sounds unnoticed above the twittering of the birds and the faint din of the highway in the distance. Summer could be scented in the distance, although the chilled temperatures continued insisting the season was still spring. The setting sun elongated the shadows on the mountains.
The two women sat in old wicker chairs, cushioned by numerous pillows, listening to the noise of the evening through the open door. The older of the two spoke first: “I am so blessed.”
The younger turned. “Oh?”
“I have six children, and eighteen grandchildren,” said the crone. “I was married three times, divorced three times, and have found peace in solitude. But I know I’m not alone, I know I am loved, and I have so much love to give. Like to you girls at the store,” she finished with a smile.
Five decades apart in age, with no relation, it was happenstance (or fate, or even God, as the old lady insisted) that had brought the two women together. Art was their common ground, as evidenced by the watercolors spread out on the table beneath the window. Hours had passed, and countless words exchanged, ranging in topics from art to anxiety to travel to souls to, at long last, love, and the many forms it can take.
Three days later, the grandmother brought an original painting of hers to the store the younger lady worked at, as a gift. Through tears of joy, she said, “We’re fifty years apart and we spent four hours visiting. It was the best visit I’ve ever had. Eighteen grandchildren I almost never see, and here I have another, right down the street from me. I am so blessed.”