TWENTY-ONE
April 13, 2010
It was warm for April. 80 degrees, sunny, slight breeze; the perfect type of day. They sat on the roof deck, Manhattan spread out in front of them like cream cheese on the bagels they were eating. Two dark haired women wearing Lucky jeans and brown leather flip flops. They ate matching Everything bagels with tofu cream cheese and drank coffee out of tall mugs sweetened with soy creamer. It was an unusual day for both despite the weather — they should’ve been at their respected jobs, but were not.
The moment was bittersweet for the woman with the shorter and more brownish hair. She was happy to be there with her friend, enjoying such a surprise of a day, but knew that if things had gone according to plan (be it God’s plan, nature’s plan, or just the plan we all make for ourselves), she and her friend would not be sitting on the empty roof deck sipping their drinks and sighing. Her friend, the other woman with the gorgeous draping mane of blackish hair, looked much better today than she had two nights ago. Despite the recent heat wave, her friend had been wrapped fiercely in woven blankets on the couch, curled into a tight ball of pain as it happened. She had had no choice but to accept and let go. Today the long, dark haired woman was still learning to let go, but she was also healing. Passing and healing simultaneously moment to moment, as continuous a cycle as breathing.
“Oh! There’s a ladybug on my chair!”
“Wait, mine too! Actually, there are quite a few.”
There were more than a few. As the women looked, several little orange and black speckled beads appeared. Some crawling from the other side of the wooden chairs, others flying to land on their shirts, bare arms, and hair.
“Aren’t these supposed to mean good luck?” asked the blackish haired one.
“Yes,” the short haired friend responded, smiling. She loved ladybugs and believed in omens.
The ladybugs became an army (who knew something so small could be so aggressive), and the women decided to head back downstairs. They stood up, gently brushed Lady Luck from their shirts and appropriately named jeans, and gathered their dishes. But the ladybugs would not be deterred. They followed the women all the way to the stairwell, like a fate one can’t escape.
The short haired woman noticed one lone ladybug on her friend’s shoulder, perched like an angel whispering into her ear. Rather than brush it away before the two stepped inside, she let it be.
