little woman grown

An old woman sat beside me at the bank today, but not before I watched her slow climb to the seat, curled over in morose osteoporosis to the rhythm of a portable oxygen tank. She adjusted her bags, her cane, and rested her forehead on her hand as she closed her eyes to rest. I thought someone would come for her, wished someone was loving her enough to make her comfortable, bringing the grandchildren by to give her kisses and hugs. The selfish means of me melted, and I tried so hard not to stare at that normal woman striving to be independent. I wanted to cry in that bank lobby, for caring about nothing, trying to rule everything, and ruining everything. How easily do I forget? I cannot complain, and must stop when the thoughts, the words creep to the surface. I have everything, and something I never expected.

He has taught me the value of silence, respect, and a groundedness I’d snobbed myself away from. I know what it is to wake in the morning and wish he were here. I couldn’t remember his name, I was so lost in the wasteland of empty worries and thoughts. Prayers are answered in peculiar ways. I know what it is to complain over circumstances, wishing for some ideal whose visage cannot be expressed, and then have reality handed to me. I have a life beyond blessed, more than most that are more religious than I am.