The Veiled Woman

My muse today, while dodging the rain drops with my mind only on finding some short respite in the tunnels, is a covered woman. She is sheltering her daughter from the downpour with an umbrella. We pass and meet eyes. Seconds turn to hours. There are countless secrets behind those dark eyes and vague conceptions register quickly behind my own during a bus ride.

She walks behind her husband and sons. She is beautifully dressed - certainly better tailored than her husband. Her head is not downcast. On the contrary, she looks me square in the eyes. My first thoughts are: She is wondering wear my veil is....she is wondering why I would walk next to a man. And I am suddenly self conscious of both these things...almost ashamed. Such is the power beind the beauty of her stare.

Inside the tunnels, shaking my umbrella wildly, I am dry for the moment but still entangled in thoughts of the face I have just encountered. The eyes from under the veil follow me as I board the bus, though she has moved on in a different direction, following her family. They are large, wide, black eyes swallowing everything in front of them with grace and silence. She seems as though a queen - indeed, a precious gem set apart from those of us who mill around her.

Is there resentment in her gaze for following instead of leading? No, I am certain. For what woman really does want to concern herself with the thoughts and acts of men entirely and tediously? As the rain leaves its streaks across my window, I envy her time to herself, her time alone with other women...her closeness to them and being understood by them. I feel I have traded in this alliance to become a player in an illusionary game of equality to the men I walk next to and not behind.

What are a few steps? What is a veil? Do her feet walk in a reality most women refuse to understand but unknowingly reach out for? Is she planted firmly in her place, as I wander, searching, never really satisfied within my own position and place?

The veiled face knows my searching; sees the questions about my own place inside the depths of my own eyes. Her gaze tells me that it is all futile. And that the difference only lies in a piece of fabric that she wears proudly and the transparent one which veils my own heart.