Crooked
A red scarf cloaks her head, concealing her hair. A wicker basket of freshly picked tealeaves hangs from her back; her hands as the hooks. One would think the weight of a humble basket of leaves is effortless but the skin around her olive hands whitens with strain. Everything about this petite woman is highlighted against the mud-colored brick wall she trudges past. The tan wicker basket, the pea green tealeaves, a chartreuse sweater, a vibrant violet skirt, and the red scarf. Her back is all I see because showing me her face might offend. I sip my tea. I taste her sweat. And all I can think of is how crooked her picture hangs on the wall of my favorite coffee shop.
