A Tribute

The lady at number 213 woke to the first ray of light at dawn. Today the day was gloomier than usual. The grey clouds hid the sun and the trees danced back and forth in the wind. She was not compelled to start her day at six, but alas old habits die hard. She wrapped the shawl that sat on a rickety chair beside her bed. The chair too was old like her and a little blemished with age. It was made for her brother when he had started to go to school. Nevertheless, she used the chair like a pillar and slowly stood on her feet. Her legs were stiff with pain. She took small steps to unwind her legs from sleep. It would not do if she made haste and then fell down on the floor. She lived alone. At about seven in the morning she started to make onion soup. She was an expert, a chef of the French soup as she cooked it quite often. She sliced the onions with such fidelity that they seemed to be done in machine. She cooked the onions slowly; first they did not change their color. Then slowly it turned golden and after frying a good minute or two they turned dark brown. The onions in soup required great care and should be slowly caramelized to dark brown to make the best soup. She always tried to make it better as the soup was a favorite with her son. He loved it if the onions were golden brown and nicely fried in butter. Her son, her brave handsome son! She sighed. It was Wednesday and she paid a visit to her son on every Wednesday. She would better hurry.

The doorbell rang at exactly 7:30 and a young boy came to deliver milk.

‘Good morning Mrs Smith’ the boy greeted her loud and clear.

‘Good morning son’ Mrs. Smith greeted back.

‘The weather looks bad. Will you still go down the hill?’  

‘Yes son I must, mustn’t I? It’s Wednesday after all.’

‘You may go tomorrow Mrs. Smith, else you might catch cold’

‘Ah! Old habits die hard, dear. Don’t worry I will definitely wrap myself nicely and I have a very big umbrella.’ Mrs. Smith replied with a smile.

‘Goodbye then Mrs Smith’.

‘Goodbye son, take care it may rain heavily’.

At exactly nine in the morning Mrs. Smith walked down the hill with a large umbrella in one hand. The umbrella, she often used to support her bad knees. It was getting gloomier by day. Everyone was hurrying down the street to escape the bitter wind. Mrs. Smith’s scarf swayed in the wind. The crowd was thinner as it was not an ideal day to shop or other leisure. Mrs. Smith easily got up in a bus which she found difficult to accomplish on other Wednesdays. She sat down. These seats were always reserved for her and other senior townsmen. The conductor greeted her with a shake of his head and she returned his greeting in a similar fashion. Five bucks were paid as usual. After six stops she was helped down at her destination. She approached the flower shop and the owner’s face lit up in recognition.

‘Good morning Jamie, bad business day?’

‘Yes ma’am whenever the weather is gloomy our business is also spoiled. The usual I presume?’

‘Yes the usual will do’.

‘You never miss any Wednesdays ma’am, no matter the circumstances.’

‘Well I promised my son you see, I promised him to always pay a visit on Wednesdays on the day he went away.’ Mrs Smith replied a little sharply suddenly emotional.

‘Sorry ma’am please don’t be offended, I didn’t mean to sadden you. It’s just that they predicted a heavy downpour in the morning news.’

‘Ah! Don’t think of me. I will be fine. After all how much days do I have left? I think I have outlived many of my near and dear once. Even my own son’ her voice was heavy with grief.

‘You are really a brave lady ma’am. Only few survives what you have lived. Here please take the flowers and one extra special bouquet for saddening you a bit ma’am’.

‘Thank you Jamie. See you around.’

Mrs. Smith crossed the road briskly and approached the cemetery. It was beside St. Joseph church. All the brave hearts who laid their lives during the terrorist attack were lying there. The first ten years the place was always crowded, friends, relatives and lovers alike came there. But now it was calmer, it has been many years since that fateful day. How many she dared not count. She walked down the familiar trail. The path was getting hazier. A tear eased down her cheek as she blinked. She wiped away her tears hurriedly and continued down the trail. On crossing the band however she gave a start. A lady was sitting beside her son’s grave. She observed her for sometime but could not recognize her son’s friend. No one has visited his grave for years. She approached her slowly and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She jumped and turned to face her.

‘Hello, Mrs Smith’ she greeted with a pained expression over her face.

‘Hello dear, pardon me but who are you? I can’t recall you my dear.’

‘I’m Emily’ she replied.

Mrs. Smith gasped. Emily was unrecognizable. She had lost a lot of weight and there were dark patches under her eyes, as if she was sick. Her hair was lanky and cut short to her shoulders but the most striking thing was not her withered beauty, it was the way she carried herself. She no longer had that chirpy-carefree or overconfident air about her. She looked more reserved and quite. Mrs. Smith suddenly started to tremble like a leaf and the world around her spun. Emily immediately grasped her shoulders and shook the old lady in frenzy.

‘Are you okay?’ She asked her voice rising with panic. She helped her sit on a boulder. Water was sprinkled on her face and a bottle was presented to her. She took two large gulps from the bottle. After a sometime she regained some of her strength and took in a deep breath to steady herself.

 In the past Mrs Smith did not appreciate Emily. She was a popular kid at school and had caught her son’s attention. They became fast friends after sometime and were joined at the hip. Her son managed to buy a bike somehow and after that oftentimes the two would go for long rides in the town. Rob would be often absent from home. This made her very resentful towards her. After some days or perhaps a few months later her son came of age and moved in with her. She didn’t think much of their love at that time. Emily seemed like a fun loving girl who could easily forget about her son at the drop of hat. Till this day, even a while ago she had been so sure of her presumptions.  Emily neither attended Rob’s funeral nor ever visited his grave after his death. Yet here she was years and decades later standing beside his grave. This time Mrs. Smith held out and grasped her hand and asked, her lips trembling , a little happy a little resentful ‘Where have you been and what are you doing here after so many years?’

She looked down at her, her eyes brimming with tears and replied ‘I had to come today Mrs. Smith; you see it’s been twenty five years’.

The mother and the girl hugged and cried. She had counted.