What value-virtue, I?

“Royal”?---Elite!

Wish: If only a world could see me as do I---

Humble! Thank God views me: Honest I…

 

Lucille cringed, contorting her un-made blotchy, wrinkled, make-up vacant face as a servant threw open heavy drapes hiding window-walls dull and dingy with city grit and grime flooding light into her elaborate penthouse suite. Damn! Too early! Too bright!

“Ugh!” Grunted her usual noon complaint. “Really! Maria! Must you interrupt my sleep?”

“Yes, ma’am. Miss Lucille.” Replied her loyal maid. “Ambassador Hall will call at two.”

Maria fluffed the pillows as her mistress labored to sit upright in the disheveled silk bedding. An engraved silver serving tray holding a china cup on matching saucer along with a silver pot graced her “Highness” indulgence as the girl busied herself retrieving designer gowns, one at a time, from the adjoining dressing room so that Lucille could peruse her desired presentation for the day. One could not wear just any old thing to greet fellow “royalty” like the ambassador.

Upon concluding the decision, Lucille demanded, “Draw my bath, Maria.”

When the girl re-entered the bedroom, she stood politely, waiting to be dismissed.

“Come back in an hour to help me dress. Oh! And, polish the ‘Czar-Russia’ silver tea service and serve promptly at two-thirty.”

Maria, in a half-bow backed to the exit, politely curtsied with a slight smile while pulling the double doors closed as she affirmed, “Yes! Mistress!”

Safely in the hallway, the servant smoothed her dainty white apron, removed a lacy kerchief and wiped clean the gold handle; the ambassador would not approve of finger marks when madam later brought him to her boudoir for “light refreshments” and “entertainment”.

Maria’s hand flew to her mouth as a slight giggle escaped her red lips; she quickly hurried off.

 

Isabella sipped lukewarm tea from a chipped-rim dime store cup missing its handle, resultant of some ancient mishap, now un-remembered as un-important. Her old rocker, runners flattened by years of wear so that the motion beat a syncopated thump against the rough pine-board floor.

Up since the dawn, the old lady smiled as the ten-forty Cleveland-bound train clattered joining in the chorus rattling the loose windows, such that they were, though the glass sparkled gleaming bright admitting morning sun as she awaited, listening to the melody matching the choreography of the bouncing room. Ain’t life grand! Isabella smiled in delightful satisfaction.

Oh! Maybe the shanty by the rail-yard wasn’t much by “Royal” standards, but, it provided and Isabella was truly happy. Crooked fingers tapped in rhythm to the rumbling beat, her hand lying on the well-worn black Bible as she consumed only half the liquid in the cup, contemplating her half-hour walk to the soup kitchen to help serve lunch. Later, she’d re-heat the remaining tea to sip with a snack long about three in the afternoon when the northbound Memphis-express passed her way marking routine time within her worthy space.

And, in the end---Lucille interred in a mahogany, brass-detailed casket in a paid plot marked with an enormous marble stone emblazoned with etched accolades; Lucille, off to an appointed judgment-date reviewing her pathetic life, vacant legacy---and…empty eternity.

And, in her beginning---Meek-Isabella would inherit the earth as the Beatitudes foretell. A rough pine box, crude planks reflecting her simple life, unique, emblazoned with a saintly golden holy aura halo-glow shining her trace into an eternal celestial greater glory. Amen!

Then, Lord, I confessed my transparent transgressions.

Now, Lord, Humble my simple necessary negotiations.

On ’morrow, Lord, Mercy-Bless my incumbent initiation.

Amen!