She trudged effortfully up the hill away from the petrol station, the large blue can like an extension of her arm, swinging slowly at her side, and matching the blue of her dungarees.
She sat by a wall, grateful to rest her weary legs and her elongated arm. Here was a woman on the verge of a metamorphosis. It took only a moment for us to pass her in the car, but it was a moment that held our attention in slow motion, an elongated moment that seemed to prevaricate and totter haphazardly towards its end.
It was during this moment that the woman started to become part of the wall – or the wall started to become part of her. The dissolution of boundaries was not clearly discernible through the car window, but a strange chemistry had taken hold in this street. Flesh and bone were turning to stone on the road out of town. The passing years, the unknown losses, the private tears, the weariness of ages – fossilised or ossified before our eyes. We will never know which, even if we passed this way again.