I meet Alison and we share a smile. I nod as if to acknowledge but she begins to say something. I take off my headphones. She asks if I’m listening to music and we enter a conversation about music. She asks if I rap myself. I don’t. I tell her who I’m listening to but she doesn’t know them. She prefers hardrock herself. She mentions one or two but I don’t know them either. We agree that we’re from different times. She’s 55. She guesses that her youngest son might be around my age. He’s 29.
We talk about other things, about Manchester, how many streets bear names of trees – Pine Street, Beech, Elm, and so on. Neither of us know why it’s so. In the middle of a conversation, I blurt out that she has beautiful eyes.
She tells me about herself too. She feels free, the happiest she’s been in her life. She tells me of her history of abuse when she was a child and how her mother had her own demons too. She tells me about her Bachelors in Psychology, her job as a GED instructor, a place she lived that had fault lines, another home with her ex, and her neighborhood getting flooded with meth. She tells me these as if narrating events from a past life. I don’t ask what happened.
She tells me of her interest in the camera. Once, with her 35mm film camera, she took a photograph of a butterfly. When she developed it, it turned out to be tens, maybe dozens of butterflies perched on each other. It’s a small story that feels out of this world. I tell her it must have been a beautiful photograph. I would have loved to see this.
I ask for a photograph and she helped to suggest a good place to make one. We settle on this one.
As I leave, she tells me to be careful. She tells me this just the way my mother would.
Manchester, New Hampshire,
2024.