You know those childhood constants, the ones you never noticed or paid attention to and then forgot about when you were grown? The ones that you know you’ll use as a motif or even dedicate a whole page to when you write your memoir after you become rich and famous, despite their insignificance on your life story? Well, I had the Foxy Glass Lady.
There’s a fairly busy street perpendicular to my own, one my family always goes down to get home from whatever adventure we had gone on, whether it be weekend trips to the mall or the morning walks my mother would drag me on in my wagon. I was a wide-eyed kid, always looking, always staring—as children typically do. I used to observe people so intently, and in my curiosity, I would ask dozens of questions, often prying and rude, to my older siblings about them. There was the “why is she bald if she’s a girl?” and the “where did his leg go?” My inquiries were always met with a hush, a scold, and a gentle explanation from my sister, 8 years my senior. I always got an answer.
And yet, the Foxy Glass Lady had always remained an enigma to me, even now. She lived on that fairly busy road, perpendicular to my own. She was an older woman—grey hair, creased skin. I would look at her eyes and see nothing in them. She was always in her wheelchair in front of her house, on the corner of the street perpendicular to my own. And next to her was this table holding up dozens of brightly colored, shining glass bottles. “Foxy Glass” was what the sign read. They were beautiful, the way they reflected and glittered in the sunlight. There was not a clear day in summer that you wouldn’t see her out, selling her craft. She was always so still, unmoving. Occasionally I would see someone tending to her. I never knew what their relation was.
I only recently realized the Foxy Glass Lady was no longer there. Walking home from the train station after my first week of college, and I look to the house on my right, on the corner of the fairly busy road perpendicular to my own, I remembered her, and how she was always there. Oh, how little me was dying to know her story. I don’t know if I ever will, but I hope she knows I remember her.
As for what role she’ll play in my memoir when I’m rich and famous? That I also don’t know. Maybe someday I’ll become the woman selling eclectic glass bottles as a young girl stares out at me, curious about my life and who I am. I think I’d enjoy that air of mystery.