Lost in thoughts, she sits at the window and looks out at the street. Though she doesn’t see the trees covering their nakedness with blossoms and delicate young leaves. Nor doesn’t she see the children come home, coats and jackets undone, scarves and mittens stuffed in pockets, or the birds building a nest in the tree outside her window.
Instead, she sees the young girl, braids flying as she runs down the alley behind the row of houses. She clutches a crumpled paper with the gold star. The child can’t wait to show mama, convinced that this will cheer her up. This will be the day that mama will smile at her. The kitchen door slams shut behind her.
“Mama, I’m home! Come, see my paper, mama.” But the little house is silent; the kettle is cold; teas is not waiting.
"I’ll start the kettle, mama.” Mother will never see the perfect mark or the gold sticker.
Suddenly, the little girl is the woman of the house. Trying to have a warm meal for her father at the end of the day. Trying to keep the house and clothes clean if not mended and failing miserably.
The old woman sits at her window and looks at the street. She doesn’t see the trees in full foliage, casting deep shadows over the street or hears the fledglings chirping. She doesn’t see the endless stickball games in the street, nor the small children and dogs as they race ahead of the older ones, on their way to the beach, or to watch the parade, enjoy the swings in the park. She doesn’t hear the children yelling or the dogs barking in excitement and anticipation of the fun.
Instead, she sees the little girl growing up too quickly while falling behind in school. The father bringing home a new mother who is not her mama. Though a better cook and mender than the girl, the new mother is quickly occupied with babies. The young girl feeling as if she got lost, wonders why her mother could not stay. And why her father has replaced them both with a new mother and other babies. Sons.
She leaves school early and finds a job as a “coffee miss”, stopping at various floors of the large building, going from office to office, selling coffee and rolls in the morning and tea and biscuits in the afternoon. She quickly learns how to sell extra cups and treats and thus increase her bonus. She takes a few classes, makes some suggestions, and earns a promotion. First to section supervisor, then division supervisor and finally to catering manager.
Desperately wanting, needing to be found, to belong, she marries. Twice. Her first husband cheats on her and leaves, her second husband dies young.
The seasons change while she sits at the window and stares at the street. She doesn’t see the leaves dry and change from green into a brilliant yellow before shriveling into a dull brown. Nor does she see the dogs, lonely for the children who are back in school, wander aimlessly up the street. She doesn’t look at the children coming home, leaning into the wind that gets colder each day. She doesn’t pay attention to the impromptu football games or the plastic pumpkins and bales of straw.
Instead, she remembers a woman working hard to like herself. A woman who dares to take trips by herself to exotic places. So many lovely memories, so many smiles and acquaintances wherever she goes. She becomes a diligent letter writer, faithfully keeping in touch with those she has met. As the ears pass, she switches to emails and text messages.
Even so, one by one her contacts drift away. Some pass away, some get lost in dementia. Some just move on to another phase of their life and contacts dwindle to the occasional Christmas card. Till she has one friend left. One contact with the outside world. Daily emails, sometimes more. Sometimes lighthearted anecdotes, jokes or memories, often trusting and sharing secrets. Then one day, nothing. No goodbye, no explanation. Is her fiend alright, healthy, alive?
Once again, she opened herself, shared her thoughts and fears, and is abandoned. She is alone again in her home, like that day, long ago. Each day she looks in the mirror, just to make sure she’s still here.
Time moves on, still she sits at the window and watches the blow-up Santas and fairy lights along the eaves. She watches the snow drift, as one by one, the flakes build up on the branches, the street, and sidewalks. She knows that soon the ploughs will come shoving the extra snow onto the sidewalks, making them more treacherous, shutting her in.
Her stiff fingers worry at a loose thread of her lap blanket. Her swollen feet remind her to think twice before walking, though she knows she should. Her painful shoulders have forced her to set her hobbies aside. Her weak eyes make reading a chore. Leaving her lost in her thoughts and memories.
She has known this emptiness would come. Though she is stronger now than she was at seven, and she knows she will keep breathing, the pain of being lost is no less. Like the snowflakes outside, her thoughts flurry endlessly remembering what she shared, how she enjoyed their conversations. Again she wonders why she is so easy to lose.
Had it all been a lie? Had she shared all those comments and secrets with the wrong person? Had she overstepped somehow? Had she been too needy, too desperate? Had her friend grown tired of her, and found someone else, someone younger to talk to? Was she too dull or too outspoken, too honest, or too reticent? Her thoughts keep tumbling, “if only, what if” yet never finding an answer.
She knows she can’t safely negotiate the stairs anymore, can barely leave her home in winter or in inclement weather. Fears falling, being accosted, or losing her way. She is alone, lost in this complicated world, having been tossed aside for the last time.
While she watches the snow fall, part of her knows she should find a place where others might care for her. Where she can fade away, leave her identity behind. Allow herself to get lost in her memories till they disappear as well.
Hopefully then, when she is lost, being lost won’t hurt anymore.
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50 comments
There’s a simultaneously intimate and epic feel here, which is quite an accomplishment. Beautifully melancholic and heart-stinging! A wonderful work!
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this is a beautiful tale
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Thank you so much Oliver for your comment. :-)
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This is beautiful. I love the narrator's melancholy voice. Though there is a note of hope at the end, I like how this piece doesn't feel an obligation to give her a happy ending - for me, it feels more authentic this way. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you for reading Shuvayon, and you lovely comments.
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A sad but very real story. Before my mother died, she related her most interesting stories to her visitors. She had quite a few visitors which stopped her feeling lost. I feel for your MC.
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Thank you, Kaitlyn for your comments. Bet you could write a lot of stories from your mother's memories.
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Seasons change, memories linger. Melancholy and reflective. Oh, that last line's so sad. A good one though. Spotted a few typos, wish I'd read this before the editing deadline.
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Thank you, Carol for your feedback. Yes, it was a sad one. But then getting old is not for the weak. :-) Too bad about the typos. I'll try not to fret over them. They are the 1st and won't be the last. :-)
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Great writing, Trudy, as always. Very poignant. Very melancholic. I miss stickball! I was the stickball champ of my elementary school. No one could get a tennis ball past me.
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Thanks, Tom for reading and commenting. Oh, go on out there and have Margot hit one at you. Bet she'll even chase and demolish it before you can catch it. :-)
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Thanks, Tom for reading and commenting. Oh, go on out there and have Margot hit one at you. Bet she'll even chase and demolish it before you can catch it. :-)
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Another great story. Kinda sad for me, but it's still beautiful.
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Thank you, Darvico. It is kinda sad, isn't it? I'm glad you saw the beauty, though.
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I always see only beauty because I had seen too much sadness in my life.
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That's a wonderful attitude to have. We could all learn from that.
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That's a wonderful attitude to have. We could all learn from that.
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Bless you, sweet Trudy. I pray that this story touches people's heart and motivates them to be there for those lost and lonely. It's the worst kind of pain, and you relayed that perfectly.
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Thank you for your kind words. You're right, of course. Who knows, maybe someone will think to call an old woman somewhere. :-)
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Another great story, Trudy. Gut wrenching, you do a great job getting the reader to feel for the main character. I sincerely hope she finds the peace she is looking for. Very well written, especially going back to the flashbacks. Great job!
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Thank you, Nicolas for your comments. I'm so glad it hit a chord with you and I'm sure she'll be ok.
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The way time loops and leaves characters stuck in the same place really hit home. I wonder if there will be a sequel or maybe a story about her life before the window? What inspired this reflection on memory and isolation?
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Thank you, Graham for both reading and commenting. I doubt if there will be a sequel or prequel. Those are never as good as the 1st edition. :-) But then many of my stories deal with losses and growing old(er).
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Sequels give you the opportunity to dive deeper into the character, to have them grow, broaden their world. Also as you progress in your experience as a writer you might find ways to improve on the original?
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True. Very true. I'll think about that. Thanks.
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No problem.
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Loved the structure of this. The trick with "instead..." was emotionally impactful and gave the story an elegant rhythm. Sad tale of trying to find meaning in everything you have done in your life. The image of the lost girl at the beginning is analogous to the spiritually lost woman looking out the window throughout the story. Also an intriguing ending which equates living in a care home with being invisible or 'lost in the crowd'. Beautiful work. Probably a very common experience/realization for the elderly. Thanks for sharing.
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Thank you, Tom. For reading and you lovely feedback. So glad you liked it. I'm not quite ready for a care home yet, but yes, I imagine it wouldn't be that hard to slip through the cracks and be lost.
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Haha I hope you don't think I assumed this was written from personal experience. I have no idea how old you are. Just very beautiful fiction :)
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LOL. I didn't assume anything. No worries. :-)
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Growing old gracefully just might be a myth. Growing old alone should be a crime. A lovely, though painful journey.
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Thank you, Geertje. You are right on both counts. Thanks for our feedback.
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This has a lot of layers to it, and I love the images just out the window of apparently effortless togetherness. You hit on a very familiar fear
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Thank you, Keba for your lovely feedback. Just one tiny voice, trying to debunk the myth of the Golden Years. :-)
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Your voice is as tiny as a Panzer tank
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LOL.
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True to life. Luckily you still have so much to share. I enjoy your wisdom so much.
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Thanks Mary. Yeah, we're not quite there yet. We both still have lots to say. Not sure if my words are wise or foolish, I just keep on talking. :-)
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I don’t know that the depths of your works are always fully appreciated, Trudy. But I wanted you to know that I understand this story, the idea of being lost and not knowing if your heart can trust. Much can be learned from your artistic skills, how you weave beautiful prose into your stories, but more importantly, you impart truths and soul and understanding to your audience. You offer a perspective and a strong voice that are beautifully crafted. Indebted to you, my friend. Hope we can catch up soon.
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Thank you, Harry. Your praise, insight and support mean a lot. Always has. You are right; being lost, finding a path, remembering and relearning trust, be it in oneself or others is often a bumpy road. And yes, catching up would be lovely. :-)
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A very heartfelt and all-too-real tale, Trudy. The imagery here is glorious too. Lovely work !
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Thank you, Alexis. So glad you enjoyed it.
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Dang that’s a real look into elderly and disabled if I understand it correctly. It’s hard In these baby stories I have found to paint a true picture. Good Job. I have a lot of family who passed with dementia so I always wondered what they thought about.
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Thank you, Donald. You know? I'm not quite there yet. :-) But I imagine that in the end they don't think about much. Like a child needs words before they can make memories, I imagine that memories fade with the ability to form sentences. Thanks for your wonderfu; feedback.
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You’re amazing writer truly.
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Aww. :-) Thanks.
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Oh the feels! What a heartfelt story of reflection, acceptance and the changing seasons of life itself. Wonderfully written. Hallmark should make this one into a movie :)
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🤗 Thank you so much, Myranda. That's the nicest comment ever. 😚
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That is deep and sad but probably true for so many. Well written, Trudy.
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Thank you, GW. You're right, it probably is true. It's so hard to admit to being lost and giving up independence. Thanks for reading me. :-)
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