It was a one-room house that she lived in. I remember her as the sun itself. Before the light peeked through dusty windshields, she would be on her porch with a cup of coffee and a smile that broke through the cold. Her voice challenged the singing birds and her movement replicated the fluidity of the wind that flowed through the gold leaves of the trees that outlined the street. Neighbors couldn’t help it, and in their daily schedule they added a section named “Emma.”  Her magnetic force attached morning gatherings on her front porch because she was a great storyteller. There were more people at her house in the mornings than there were at church on Sundays. Her heart was the cause of it all, it was as if it pumped life instead of blood.

Her mom had raised her through the most detrimental of situations. Her husband had died early on and she became paralyzed from her waist down in a car accident shortly after when her daughter, Emma, was in high school. So, she loved her daughter and handed her pieces of her soul that Emma then wore in her eyes, voice and on her chest. In the darkest of times, she’d stretch out her hands and her arms and remember her mother’s warmth.

Many people knew it was love that made her stretch herself out like rays. She was in love, she swam in it and drenched herself in it like perfume. The smell radiating off of her was too strong at times and if you had an excellent nose, you could smell a light bitterness.

Many of us knew why. Her love was a forbidden love. She had fallen for Robert, the city’s madman. He wasn’t a type of madman that belonged in a straitjacket, locked up in an empty cell. Robert was considered a madman because he was different. The small town took pride in being joyful and Robert was a gray cloud hovering over its bright red roofs.

Robert’s appearance didn’t help either. You couldn’t look at him without noticing the unevenness of his face. One side seemed to be pushed down too hard by gravity. His skin resembled the thawing bark of trees during the winter. He had a stocky build, but that too bothered some of the residents.

Most blamed his shortcomings on his mom for that Saturday morning where she pushed the swing too hard and stained the playground with his blood. Others blamed his father for giving him alcohol at 8-years-old. Whatever the reason, everyone knew he was never going to live in this world, at least not with his mind or with the broken heart that kept his eyes dry and hollow as the abandoned well behind his house.

Emma saw past all of it. Wrinkles were forming on her face and her skin begun to wither and dry up. When she looked in the mirror, she pictured the small statue of the Virgin Mary outside the community church. The townspeople believed that she granted miracles.

“All you have to do is sit on your knees, pray for what you need and then rub her left foot,” they said.

Now that foot is disfigured and discolored from all the rubbing it receives daily. The green fabric that adorns her lost its vibrancy long ago and is ripped in various places.

Emma knew she needed something different, someone who wouldn’t throw themselves at her feet and beg for a piece of her. Robert was just that. When Emma would sing in the car, Robert would turn the volume up on the radio. When Emma would dance to the noises of the city, Robert would turn the other way. When Emma would dress up beautifully for their dates, Robert would point out a flaw. Emma liked it, she craved for some one to touch her with empty words, to give her a chance to feel vacant inside.

Unfortunately, Robert was far gone. He was too far into the endless maze of his mind until something happened one day. Maybe he began to hear voices, and the pain was unbearable. Or maybe he just found out that the maze wasn’t endless and began feeling something for Emma. Whatever it was, he left, leaving behind another red stain.

Now, Emma hangs rosaries on the trees that bend like broken bodies. The neighbors have the daily habit of closing their windows before night covers the city to block out the horrific sounds that come out of her. Now, the chair Emma sat on in the mornings, rocks on its own like a broken windup toy, crushing the broken leaves falling at its feet.