A Fern By Any Other Name

Fern.

How do I even begin to describe her? Fern is a regular 79 year old woman, and she is my neighbor who's room looks straight into mine on the second floor. She's lived in the same house for longer than I've been alive, and I've been alive for 17 years which means she's practically ancient. In the years of my adolescence, I took notice of her daily habits and routines. They seem almost ritualistic in nature.

For example, everyday after she wakes up, she drags her feet along her carpet and heads to her window to throw it open and take a deep breath. When I first saw this I thought, "how sweet, an old woman trying to get some fresh air first thing in the morning!" Now, however, I know better. She takes a seat in the rocking chair by her window, and I always watch in astonishment as she finishes a third of a pack of cigarettes within an hour like they are only licorice whips. After she finishes with the morning destruction of her lungs, she walks to her closet to pull out an old, brown, tweed jacket. She then slips it on and dances around the room, she breathes in the scent and hugs herself close. I think this to be strange, but I never judge too harshly. Next she disappears out of her room and doesn't come back for an hour and 15 minutes. When she does return she's dressed for her day and always wearing a rusted locket in the shape of an oval which she constantly fiddles with. After this, she will do an array of things that have no particular pattern.

I stopped these observation as I grew older and more self involved. I don't have many friends, and I don't do much other than read, listen to music, or stare at myself in my mother's floor length mirror asking myself, "who are you?" I guess you could say this would be one of my ritualistic behaviours.

When I turned 16, I made it a habit of mine to climb out of my window and sit on my roof to read a good book and smoke a cancer stick or two. It wasn't healthy and it wasn't very smart, but it made me relaxed, and it made me feel cool.

One day, as I read Wuthering Heights and took a long drag of my cigarette, Fern, who then was just "lady" to me, sticks her head out her open window.

"Hey, kid," she stage whispers in a raspy voice.

I look up from my book and see her looking around anxiously as though she thinks someone might be watching.

"What do you want lady?" I respond rather rudely.

"You got an extra one of those?" She bobs her head at my cigarette, her salt and pepper, wavy hair swaying slightly at the movement. Her hands grip the window sill tightly and her lips tremble a bit.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my Camels and stick one out for her to grasp in her thin, bone like fingers that looked even more frail than the cigarettes. I then pull out my light and hand it to her. All in one movement she lights her Camel and closes the lighter. She blows the smoke out and takes another big drag. She watches me for a moment, I notice from my peripheral vision.

After a moment she speaks up. "These things'll kill ya', kid."

I smirk. "Speak for yourself, lady. Don't you finish a pack in less than two days? Speaking of which, why aren't you smoking your own instead of bumming one off me?"

She snarls at my response and question. She taps her cig lightly and let's the ash fall between our houses. "It's none of your damn business, that's for sure." I chuckle incredulously and return to my novel. A minute of silence passes by us and it feels like ages. Finally, she puts out her cigarette on her sill and sighs loudly. "If you must know," she begins, "my eldest daughter payed me a little visit this afternoon and threw them all away. She says they're killing me."

I can't help but look at the old lady with condescendence in my eyes. "You think maybe she's right?"

That got her cackling. Her thin, paper like lips stretch over yellowed teeth in a translucent smile. "My dear boy, I'm gonna die sooner or later, might as well enjoy myself while I still can!"