Kosovo

There is tired
and there is tired…

an old woman leans, is patient, observes from her second floor railing. The straightened steel is a haunting black that’s just dry, not enough time has ambled through the barnyard yet. There has been nothing extra for healing yesterday’s burned out truck so it sits, without tires, immobile. Rusted fenders and multiple small punctures are a reminder to look close at things. Otherwise, this is a hushed paradise of green and the remaining family sell blended lavender to tourists. Life is almost as usual but the tourists are too quiet, too respectful. They buy a hand-made sachet, aware the contents must be disposed of before climbing on a homeward-headed aircraft.

This woman casts a vague sigh in no particular direction. She is between tasks, the sort of tasks an old woman can still do. A little washing up, a bit of cooking, a sweep or two at encroaching dust are manageable. She takes her time, she rests a bit. There is only a little work, a little time, a little breathing, a little bit of heartbeat left.