I must have been staring again, as she lifted the brow I was eyeing.
“A-apologies,” I stammered, immediately averting my eyes to my gloves, focusing on the tassels of my purse.
“Are you feeling well now?” she asked as her skirt came into view while my head was tucked down.
“I feel”—I had to pause to gather my thoughts—“like I am slowing down.”
“How so?”
“Paranoid, forgetful, like I am moving through water at all times trying to run.”
“Are you on any pharmaceuticals?”
“No.”
“Do you sleep well?”
I shook my head.
“Unfortunately common,” she assured, retreating back behind the counter, “but nothing we can’t aid.”
When I glanced up, she was already pulling jars from their neat places on the shelves.
“I used to be a performer. A good one.” I lifted my chin as I hesitantly approached the counter. “I was sharp, focused, precise ...” The words felt unfamiliar as I said them, possibly knowing that I didn’t even believe them anymore. A realization that had been long coming that I was not yet willing to admit.
“We are all sharp when we are young,” she said, turning her back to me as she worked. “Blades get dull, you just need to know when to sharpen them.”
“Surely there must be something wrong,” I insisted, “for such a sudden change.”
“Many things change instantly.” She shrugged. “Your symptoms don’t worry me yet. It sounds like you have just gotten older.”
“Your answer is that I’mold?” The word was spat like it was unsweetened clover candy.
The botanist shook her head, but when she turned, she was most definitely laughing.
“Not old, justolder,” she clarified. “You will never be like you were when you were a young lady. Nobody is. Aging is part of it, you’re simply maturing.” She raised a brow. “Physically at least.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Now you are calling me childish?”
“Never.” She furrowed her brow in mocking reassurance. She took my hand and placed a bottle firmly into my palm. “Take this nightly, see how you feel. If you feel your disposition is getting worse, come visit me again.”
I tore my eyes from hers and looked to the unlabeled bottle in my hands. It seemed to be some sort of chalky liquid, I didn’t imagine it would taste any good.
As if she could read my mind, she said, “Take it with a cocktail, it will taste better.”
I couldn’t say I was excited about this mystery remedy, but it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.
The park was supposed to be calming, serene. I couldn’t find the ease within me, not now.
The day was nice, the park was beautiful, all signs for a good day, yet I was suffering from a seed embedded deep in my gut that something was amiss.
Within the park was a tall fountain, the dribbling water rippling the surface, hiding the shimmer of pennies gilding the bottom. Isaw a mother pushing a stroller along the pebbled walkway, a couple promenading, then lastly, a lonely elder woman sitting on a bench.
She looked wise all on her own, lost in thought. Perhaps burdened by old memories, age, or maybe just her breakfast. It was hard to read strangers. Oh, to be able to be idle, unbothered.
My thoughts disappeared into the movement of milky liquid in the bottle, a brief loss of place—before a gruff hand snagged my arm.
“Petronille.” The strained voice of the commissioner manifesting my name made my stomach drop back into place from before my moment of bliss.
