She was an Old Woman

The interaction between an old woman and a restaurant patron on a windy day.

She was an old woman. It was a cold day. It wouldn’t have been cold if it weren’t for the wind, that whipped the clothes tight to your skin and made you feel like you were wearing paper, not anything substantial that could keep you warm and when you tried to open a car door or the door to your house the invisible hand of the wind slammed it shut again. Nice try.

I was in a sandwich shop on one of these blustery days. At least the sandwich was warm. I had got a table near the window. I liked to watch life’s passing parade, especially on days when writer’s block froze my hands and prevented them from being able to type anything. Nice try. Maybe something would strike my fancy out the window. You never know when that one just right character will stroll by. Maybe a homeless man pushing a shopping cart with a dead cat in it, or a dancer from some club strutting by like a pretty blue parrot in her fancy, feathered costume. I did not see any such homeless men nor pretty dancers on that day, instead I saw the woman.

I was a young, struggling writer and currently, I was gnawing thoughtfully on my sandwich, wondering if they charged me extra for mayonnaise, because if they did, I really was not going to have enough spending money for those nice shorts I had seen at Kohl’s  the other day. They were on sale and living so near the beach, it seemed like a crime not to own them, but at the same time living on the budget of a hit-or-miss writer, you couldn’t always afford such luxuries. As I sat there pondering, up walked this woman.

She was an old woman, I think I have said before. An old Asian woman, pushing a walker. The walker had a basket on it, and the basket had some fruit in it. There had been an open air market that day, and her basket had apples, oranges and a bag of strawberries in it. I could see all this because the basket was old too. The sticks that had been woven together and the white paint that had made the basket look quite vogue back in the day, were now being worn thin, and one or two of them were broken, rather like its owner was broken. She did have a walker after all. And the day was windy, the invisible hand pressed firmly on the door. The little woman had her walker in the way of the door, she couldn’t reach the shimmering doorknob. Her arms were too short, and even if she could reach it, I doubt she could’ve pushed hard enough to make the door budge at all. The wind looked strong enough to pull her away if she didn’t have the walker to anchor her down. She did not knock, because she could not reach the door, instead, she stood there helplessly, her hands gripping her walker.  And then the wind gripped her basket of fruit.

She was an old woman and when the fruit flew everywhere, she deliberately bent over to collect it all, though it obviously caused her much pain, as she kept her left hand on her back until the last possible moment. The movement was much too slow for the wild wind, which took the strawberries right out of the bag and splattered them across the road like blood. The apples rolled into the sewers. All the woman could salvage was one orange which miraculously had landed just at her feet. The other orange was just a few feet away, but she could not reach it, especially after she had taxed her back bending over to get the first orange. So she stared at it mournfully, helplessly, maybe praying that the wind would roll the fruit a little closer or, God forbid, pick it up and drop it gently in her hands. But the wind did not do either of those things. It would sweep the fruit away, but it would not sweep it back. The cruel, cruel wind.

I sat at my window-side table and watched all this unfold. My table could not have been more than a few feet away from the door, if I had stood up and leaned over the table, I could have opened the door without even leaving my seat. I could’ve opened the door and gone out and picked up the woman’s fruit for her, and handed it back. And she would’ve thanked me and smiled one of those genuine smiles you witness very rarely in your life. And I would not have been able to help smiling back at her while I held the door open for her and assured her it was no problem, really. But I did not get up. I just continued to watch the pathetic performance before me. She looked up from her orange and directly at the sky, then she turned and our eyes met.

She was an old woman, but looking into those eyes you never would’ve guessed. They looked like any other pair of incredibly sad eyes I had seen in all my life. They did not beg, this woman was of the imperial lot and she would never do something so below her dignity. They were not angry at me for simply being a witness to her struggle, though I rather wished they were angry. They were just sad, just mourning the loss of at least a dozen good strawberries, three red apples and one sardonic orange. It was only a few seconds and then we looked away again, me at my sandwich, the old woman at the orange. I think she looked at me again, and I hope when she did; she was angry.

She was an old woman. Eventually, a nice young woman happened to catch a glimpse of the old one and opened to door for her. They talked for a few seconds, no doubt a plethora of thank yous and you’re welcomes, and then, the young woman invited the older one to sit down for a minute or two, she (the younger one) would treat her to lunch. When the younger one left, the older one made eye contact with me again. Her eyes left mine, found the orange, then focused back on me again. A silent way of requesting the orange that was still taunting her just beyond the door. I abruptly stood up. I threw the rest of my uneaten sandwich away (not very thrifty of me) and left the sandwich shop. I wanted that old woman to be angry at me. I looked at the orange, studied it like a newly discovered species of plant, then walked away. At this point, it all seemed too little too late.

Author's Note

Any corrections or comments are welcome!