Mary

Greeting the day through the ragged tent flap, she struggled to rise from the jumbled pile of old coats and blankets that provided comfort for her arthritic limbs. With a burst of flame from the kerosene burner to heat her kettle, her new day stirred.
A warming drink, a cursory quick wash - a token to a life past - cleanliness unimportant in a solitary life, her company shunned except by her tormentors, children who oft times came to invade her afternoons with ridicule and threats.

Life had not always been so. Her non-conformity had been as involuntary as her inability to live within the confines or expectations of her family or society; her behavour an enigma to family and peers.

Once she had the supple limbs and svelte figure that held promise of a happy fulfilled future. Her tumble of chestnut hued curls had been as unmanageable as her spirit, and despite many a young man attempting to curb her independent nature, her freedom had triumphed.

She had suffered though, the anguish still tormenting her mind and corroding her life style. It had been true love, the deepest, wildest longing, the meeting of hearts and minds of true altruists. They had roamed the world together, discovering, uncovering; limbs and minds entwined in a passion that surpassed their sweetest imaginings. And then he was gone, her life her 'raison de etre', crushed and destroyed by a war they were helpless to avoid.

It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to overcome her grief; it was her senseless existing that parched her mind; his needless death, and the tragic aftermath for those who love unto death. It was excruciating, and then the dark tentacles of depression entangled and she wept no more.

They put her away, away with the other gentle folk wandering ceaselessly the corridors of detention, keening for the lost ones. They said she was demented, but she knew they were wrong, and soon the light returned, for such a spirit cannot be quenched forever.

There were other men, men who sought her limbs and heart but never her mind; her intensity and restlessness too confronting. Now her aged body was desperate for rest, but the quest for independence undiminished. But the mind is a fearful thing, and when memories stroked her rest she sought drink, intoxication bringing sleep, but never assuaging the pain.

Occasionally, driven by necessity, she ventured into the nearby village, the abrasive contact rendering her incoherent, fulfilling the crowd's expectations of absurdity. Uncomprehending her discomfort and careless of her dignity, they never encountered the distress confusing her purpose and driving her retreat.

They found her there, curled up on her raggedy bed, a tumbled grubby old woman. But they never found her essence, never tamed or defeated. Just as her crown of chestnut hued hair had defied constriction, so her spirit had escaped to reunion with the source of her life's quest, her one true love.

Mary was her name.

Gambold