You Don't Change

by Margot Miller

A woman I used to know, from back before I gave up organized religion, is crossing the street towards me. I can see that she has some important errand. She is carrying an empty plastic mail bin from the Post Office. She says hello. I do, too. Politely. She says, "So, what are you doing these days?" emphasis on the you.

Before I can process that she already knows what my former husband is doing, either because she has seen him socially or because she has heard it on the Holy Trinity coffee hour grapevine, I answer: "I'm writing."

"That must be..." There is a pause--the subtle, wary inflection of an invitation to tell more and the imperceptible calculation of what might be learned barely visible behind the glaze of the non-reader slipping over the eyes."... fun."

"It is," I say.

"Are any of your kids married?" she asks.

I can see that she already knows the answer to this question but without thinking, I answer truthfully. "Maureen is getting married in the spring," and then I try to turn the question to her own family, "Are yours all married?" hoping this is what she really wants to talk about.

"We had one get married just two weeks ago."

"That's lovely," I say, but I don't remember the names of her sons, so I don't ask which one.

"Will it be at Holy Trinity?" She is back to my daughter's wedding, nodding toward the steepled edifice in the distance. Nothing is far from the center of town here.

"No," I say, "We don't go there anymore."

She inhales audibly, "But who will do the service?"

"Well, we haven't actually worked that out yet." I take a step sideways.

"Ned Austin did ours," she suggests, stepping closer, forcing me to face her. "It was beautiful."

"I don't think we'll go that route," I step back, on the verge of saying goodbye, when another idea occurs to her.

"Well, do you like your future son-in-law?"

"He's fine." I smile and don't volunteer anything more. I am almost free. Perhaps I should say how nice it is to see her, ask about those boys, run on about the wedding... but I don't.

She shakes her head, a wry smile tainted with pity and the faint aura of self-righteous judgment. "You don't change," she says and steps back into the current of her errand.

The Author

After a brief career as a counselor (psych) and a number of years rearranging plants, furniture, and children's schedules, Margot Miller earned a mid-life Ph.D. in French literature. These days she writes fiction as well as translating stories for use at the Academy of Lifelong Learning, Chesapeake Maritime Museum, St. Michael's MD. Visit her website at miller.margot.googlepages.com/home.