Love is Love

I was not supposed to watch her, but I could not help it. Everyday just after nine in the morning she would arrive and go inside. A few minutes later, she would pass by the window and then she would come outside to the garden pushing the old woman in a wheelchair. The routine was always the same.

She would take the braid out of the old woman's graying hair and taking her time, she would brush a hundred strokes or more. She would gather the hair in her hands and wind it back into a beautiful braid. A word was never spoken during the whole process.

It was obvious to me that she loved this woman. I could see it in each stroke. In the commitment to show up everyday. In closing her eyes when she kissed her on the forehead. In the forlorn look upon her face when she pushed the old woman back inside. Was she her lover, her sister or just a friend? I would never know. And in this crazy world we live in, does it really matter? Love is love.

"The suspect is on the move. Be alert people. Remember he is armed and dangerous. Headed south on Lincoln," said a voice from the tiny speaker in my ear. I folded my newspaper, tucked it under my arm and stood. I crossed the park and headed into a world where love plays no part.