I'm wondering, who is she?

Startling. She drew my attention immediately. Upon entering the waiting room at a medical clinic. In the city of Carbonia. In Sardinia. In Italy. She looked far older than her years. Yes, I thought she was younger. Maybe 60. Not 70. Her face weathered. Skin no longer smooth. And she dressed in the old ways. Everything in black. Even her purse. Loose clothing. And a black babuska on her head. Like the peasants in the old country used to wear. Interesting. Hair black, too. Maybe a few traces of gray. A nice smile. Maybe she emerged from another time. Anything but a modern woman. She was likely here for a medical test. The pink and white form in her hand. The same one that other patients held. Signifying the procedures. She looked worried. And leaned forward rather than sitting erect. Almost as if she was leaning on a cane beneath the clothing. If I had any guts and gumption, I'd gently bring my digital camera out of pocket and sneak a photo. Over and over again. Coyly. Maybe with the camera on my lap. The flash turned off. This woman was worth a photographic study. Such character. Vivid. So unlike everyone else in the room. She could be in a movie. A star. Or in my dream. Why was she wearing black? As if in mourning. I'd have loved to strike up a conversation. She's Italian. No doubt. Doesn't speak English. My Italian true love seated next to me. Seeing all this, too. I whispered, 'Look at that lady. Would it be all right for me to take her picture?' Of course, I knew the forthcoming answer. 'No way.' But I thought maybe I could pull it off. In an unobtrusive way. But no, I didn't. With regrets. But still, I have the woman's picture riveted in my mind. Maybe forever. I can still see her. Every detail. And I'm wondering, who is she? I'd like to know her. --Jim Broede