In Those Days

There are women here, mature women, who ride the bus with dignity & a
 delicate fan to compliment their silks & striking prints & some sport a cane or
 hand-sewn umbrella or a clutch from Riera or Cartier to hold their private
 needs for a trip to Sonia’s for dinner or Dr. Font’s for that sore tooth or, Yes,
 an afternoon rendezvous in Guell Parc with a certain gentleman from her
youth who is widowed & . . . & while I watch she nonchalantly opens her fan
& begins, with her wrist cocked just so, to stir the air & with it a sly smile
seems to come or is it a hint of perspiration caught in the corner of an eye
which has made her turn this delicate rose or is it a memory or vision of herself
with her first fan at a cotillion or summer fiesta when she was a girl in
Tarragona & the young men would come to her mother & ask her to walk with
them & it was the fan which kept her engaged & wise to the talk & time &
whether the air had warmed or cooled & the name of the man had  changed &
she was on her own as she was mostly in those days & could do no wrong.