Just an old woman

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.