Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment

They both have short cropped gray-white hair with a fluff in the front and the soft, sturdy body of a welcoming young grandmother. Neither looks older than their early sixties which gives the old lady look a premature quality, like a fashion choice. Each is clad in loose, summery garb, intensely patterned atop, solid light shades below, merrily debating who will drive today given how each slept. They are strangers to me and probably everyone else in the room, gathering their continental breakfasts greeting every new face as an old friend. “How are you doing this morning?“ One or the other of the pair asks each person they encounter, politely waiting for an answer and cooing an appropriately kind response. Thank goodness there are fewer than ten of us. I do believe women like this are a dying breed, appropriately, and I love them all the more intensely for it. These two who could easily be sisters, with the possibility of twin-hood not far off, bring a Southern-flavored zest to our hotel breakfast. Of course I secretly want them to be lovers grown together a lifetime into an indecipherable independence; I satisfy myself that the gaiety is potent. A dog on a leash arrives, exciting both gals into a barrage of cutesy talk and questions. It turns out this flopsy blond, very polite terrier has been rescued. As the story unfolds our listeners become simply delighted to know how good the dog has it now! Only then do I notice that this particular breakfast is missing an incorrigible TV blaring the news; our entertainment so much more potent. When the human holding the leash says the dog’s name I don’t catch it, but I’ve only to wait the breath it takes for these two happy voices to exclaim delightedly, and together: “Oh, Franklin!”