No Name

My steps always slow a bit when I wander past — you know, that house on Earl Lane. It is medium far from my new digs, of course; but I always find parking by the playground and time to amble by — just in case she is about — or in — never quite sure of the phrase. One might think me a hapless swain or tabloid reporter with my frequency — but others come too. We just smile, and nod — never exchanging a word — no need. Either you understand or you don’t. If you know her name you come. Simple.

I first heard it when I crossed the street to admire her bed of flowers — laughing friends of sunlight when other yards were drab and brown — forlorn. I laughed and whistled to a caterpillar pulsing there — strange — it was autumn! No matter — the flowers waved back at me in rhythm and sang her name — “Anashee” — I thought I saw her shadow at the window. Another time I saw her at the market — the outdoor one. Made sense! I knew it was she — her slender staff tapping a dance on the stones — silver plaited hair entwined with scarlet yarn. The teaming, surging crowd jostled each other and stalls shook from clutching, clamoring hands — but she stood alone — no one near. It was as if she was not really there — yet as if no one else was — a space and dream apart. I drew close and I knew she smiled though I never saw her face — never have. But she spoke to me — well sort of. My heart sang a whispered, “Anashee.” You only have to hear it once — and you remember. Silly thing to say!

Others say they have seen her by the river — always on the other side — but no one can say exactly when — or time of day — just when they were caught up in some moment of joy or youthful play — look up — away — know that she is there. I haven’t though — perhaps I lack a sense of awe or wonder — perchance I don’t need to see her. After all — I know her name! I could find her if I chose of course — just clear my mind of jumbled thoughts and imagined needs — and let my soul guide my feet. It is enough for now to revel in the trail of whispers she leaves behind — prancing grass and chattering leaves — and raindrops pooling in mirrors of light — and seeds contenting themselves with tomorrow — and strangers touching hands — and trees asking to be hugged. Where she passes time ripples a bit and I look back at where I will someday be — a child again — I hope.

There are rumors that she is a witch — couldn’t be — but people need a word — never said with rancor or fear — just something that pops into their head — those who don’t hear her name. Don’t know why people need a label — why not just accept? Someone said she was from another place — didn’t specify — just a statement of fact. Where she is — is now — must be, I guess. We are from another place — not hers. Oh, I understand! “Anashee” is not her name! It is a vibration of the current I feel when standing here — this empty lot covered in thorns — no address on the curb — only a twisting path through untended grass. She walked her once — I know — it was enough. For when a wizard passes flowers grow, the say. And now I will trace that path forever — and the cottage will return — and the fountain gurgle over ageless stones — and the windows cast back a reflection of another time — never lost. Come sit here a spell with me. Sing of Anashee. Sit.

But sing.