My name is Anastasia. In the world we live in, with so many unique names, you would think Anastia would be overlooked. But, no. I still see poeple pause after I introduce myself.
The only other Anastasia that I have met, was when my mom and I went on a road trip, about five years ago.
We had stopped in a small town, for food and a quick rest. Everything was so dry. Parched by the sun or to tired to try and be anything else.
We parked outside a small diner, across the road there a farmers market going on. But I didn't see much green.
My mom said she had to go to the bathroom, and that she would be right back. I wasn't to move. Unless the car was on fire. Than I could move.
I had nodded and said, I know. I know. But as soon as the door to the restroom closed, curiosity got the better of me and pretty soon I was scoping out
the farmers market. I walked by stall after stall of vegatables. It didn't take long for me to start to get bored by this too. Just as I turned to go back to the car.
I spotted her. A woman draped in scarves and beads and surrounded by paintings of vaguely familiar shapes.
I couldn't have guessed her age, her hair was a deep brown, so dark it could have been called black. Her skin was wrinkled, but her eyes shown so much.
I felt as if she knew the the answer to everything. I stepped closer to her stall, just so much that I could see and hear everything that was happening.
I watched and listened as a young couple came up and enquired about a painting. She gave a regal smile, and in a soft smooth voice, introduced herslef and began to tell a story.
A story about how she had come to be here. Back in her land, she was married off as soon as she turned of age. Her husband was charming, if not a little
too old, and soon whisked her off on many adventures. He was, of course, very rich. She told them of how she had visited strange lands, full of color and mystery.
She had once climbed to the top of the pyramids. She had slept under a sky so full of stars, one wondered how it didn't burst. Lands both civilized and not.
All of the wonders of the world! She had seen it all.
She told of how her husband had died as soon as they stopped in New York. She had him buried in the most honorable way. A way that suited and spoke of
how he had been while still living. How genorous a man he was. How adventures he was.
Soon after she had spared no expense burying her late husband. She soon found out that she had no money to her name. All of her late husbands fortune had gone
to his younger brother.
She had no choice but to sell what she could and live in poverty until her brother-in-law remembered her again.
But, she was quickly running out of money and time refused to go any faster. She slept on the streets that night. When she awoke, she found herself in an alley
full of other people, just like her. She soon dressed like them, spoke like them. Painted like them. When the time came, many months later, to leave New York
she went with. Coming to cold realization that her brother-in-law, either did not know, or did not care about her and her predicament.
She traveled for many years, settling for only a few months at a time and selling her paintings to survive.
This particular painting, was one that reminded her on all her journeys. One that spoke to her when no other painting could.
It's beautiful, the young couple gushed, it's simply gorgeous!
Thank you. She had said. But, you see I simply cannot part with it at this time.
Oh, I see. The wife nodded. Are you sure? She asked. It was so very beautiufl after all.
The woman sighed and said she could part with it, if they truly loved but it would not be for a small price. They then began to discuss the price of it.
And I knew. I knew that the story of the adventures young woman. The story I had just fallen in love with, was not real, it just a sales pitch.
The story I had just fallen for, was a ruse, to get more money out of her customers. I ran back to the car, their voices following me as the price went farther up.
When I got back to the car, my mom was frantically talking to a woman in an apron. She was quite angry with me for disappearing like that.
I was too angry with that 'Sales Lady/Story Teller' to really listen to what my mom was saying. How dare she make me believe that story? How dare she make me care about that adverturous young lady who could have been?
Finally, my moms voice broke through my brooding. She asked why I scared her like that. I said I was bored with bored with my life and needed a break.
And than I realized. Maybe that lady at the market just needed a break from life. Maybe she needed to believe that she was, at one point, that adventurous young lady.
Daring and brave, who poured her heart into her artwork.
Maybe she needed to believe that her artwork was something more than vaguely familiar shapes.
Maybe she needed to believe that there had been more to her life than whatever had been.
And so, it was there, on the road between surrounded by night sky, that I forgave her. I forgave her for making me believe that someone so incredible, could live in such a mudane town.
I breathed deeply and forgave. All the while looking into the sky, so full of stars, that it looked as if it could truly burst.
