She's leaving me.

She's leaving me.

She was due to go three days ago but as September drew to a close she is still around, packing away all her possessions.
She packs and stacks with every movement precise and calculated.
Each item carefully studied, ensuring everything is secured tightly and in its place in preparation for the journey.

I shouldn't be surprised she is leaving, after all she has done it to me before.
For the past few years she has come and gone, why should this time be any different.
This time it's final, no coming back, as soon as she leaves the locks will be changed and the gates barricaded denying any future access.

I remember the first time I saw her arrive from my little balcony.
She was driving an old rusty pickup truck that hissed steam from a leaky radiator.
Trailing behind a pastel green and cream caravan with a red door swayed from side to side as it bumped over the grass.
She waved a hello and blew me a kiss with a wide smile and began setting up camp below my window.
Most days I would watch her making delicate silver chains, earrings and bracelets for the market.
Occasionally she would paint up a water colour that balanced precariously on a lopsided easel.
A wet canvas about to fall and capture earthy tones.
She was always making something or other, there was no end to her creativity.
Willow screens, wind bells, bird boxes, scented candles and soaps.
A wooden rocking horse turned up one day, painted black and white, so vibrant and alive it looked ready to gallop off.

At night a small fire would be lit and depending on the wind, smoke would puff up and sneak through the crack in my window.
Fish or chicken, sometimes a roasted kebab of peppers and lamb .
Whatever was cooked it was always wrapped in wood smoke and smelled delicious.

One day in the stifling heat of the afternoon I dozed off, when I woke she had gone.
She would have waved a goodbye to me and blow a kiss, I know that for sure, because she always did on leaving.
Without fail she would shout up to me "Hi... I'm going now...!"
I never saw her again.
Whenever I cook a piece of fish or chicken I think of her and consider taking up painting, making wind bells or something like that.