I sit at the edge of the hard, wooden seat, inhaling the faint, yet somehow overpowering scent of incense. I am alone. I had been walking down the street, during the somehow always busy weekday; cars, vendors overwhelming the senses with bright lights, sounds, and smells. So full of hurried businessmen and women, speeding by, always looking like they are late to some utterly important meeting.
In shock from the news, I have wandered aimlessly through the streets. For how long I do not know, but when I look up, I am lost in every sense of the word.
The sound of sirens in the distance shriek through even the thick church walls and I suddenly wonder who is in the back of that ambulance. Is it a man or a woman? Young or old? Perhaps it is a child--bleeding, crying, anxious from all the commotion. I feel sad for that person, whoever he or she may be, but I feel even sadder for me and I don't even feel bad about it. What kind of a person am I? I wonder as I stare down at my knotted hands. A tear hits my arm and slides down lazily through a sea of fuzzy blonde hair.
I hear the soft movement of fabric and I look up to see who has joined me in my sanctuary. An older woman, dressed in jeans and a soft yellow cardigan sweater (that somehow manages to look depressing, even with the usually bright lemony shade) sits down next to me. Maybe if I ignore her, she will go away; I am in no mood for pep talks or socializing. I hope that she'll pull the padded knee bench down, pull out her rosary and silenty pray for a few moments, before hurriedly crossing herself and sliding out of the pew and out of my life.
I look down, pretending that she is not there. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her shoes. Soft, worn leather mocassins. No joke, looking like she bought them straight off of an Indian reservation, actual mocassins adorn her freaking feet! Simple, well worn, without any beads or other ornamentally annoying shit. These shoes strike an unnaturally powerful curiosity in me and I am all of a sudden desperate to get a full-on solid look at her, head to toe; however, I don't. Not yet.
She smells nice. Like skin freshly washed with ivory soap. Not too fresh though, not overpowering like she has just stepped out of the shower. Her smell reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen and days spent out in the autumn afternoon, on a worn park bench. She's probably been out all day. Curiosity gets the best of me and I try to use my peripheral vision to get a peek of her face.
Wrinkled, she is actually much older than I first guessed; she is hard and soft at the same time. I know she knows that I am carefully assessing her, deciding if I want any part of her and she is ok with that, giving me my time, not uncomfortable in any way, not fidgeting impatiently. She sits patiently, with her mocassined feet crossed lazily, one over the other, straight ahead of her. A pair of holiday snowman socks stick out between her shoes and jeans. It's September, nowhere near Christmas. I wonder if she is wearing Halloween underwear.
Her hair is a blondish white-ish color. From far away, she could pass for a stunning platinum blonde, the kind of color that upper east side women pay hundreds and hundreds of preshly pressed green papers for. Up close, it is a soft greyish white, with fading blonde on the ends, the young being pushed right out of the roots of her head. She has barely any lashes, but there are some there--hard, pale brown, short and angled straight down. She wears no makeup, except for the standard overdone blush that seems to be a uniform for most older women who are still trying to make some effort at their appearance.
She has a small red stain on the faded pink shirt that she has on underneath her sad sunny sweater. Two thoughts enter my mind simultaneously: where did the stain come from and did that pink shirt have some cheesy logo on it, like "Grandmas do it better" or "What I say goes and I say GO!"?
The stain is a dark red, almost rusty maroon in color. Did she get it while eating a jelly filled donut? Or did she have a bloody nose that morning? Does she even eat or like jelly donuts? She doesn't appear to be overweight, but she is soft and slightly plump the way that most grandmothers should be. Is she on a strict senior's diet where she can't eat things as sinfully dangerous as donuts? Or is she on that diet, but is one of those ball-busting grannies who doesn't give a damn and has herself something naughty at least once a week? Hell, she figures that she earned it by now. And while she's at it, she probably also has a big mug of super caffeinated coffee, with loads of cream and sugar. Yeah, definitely extra cream and sugar. Maybe even a dollop of whipped cream.
Or does she have debilitatingly high blood pressure, which causes her to have occasional nose bleeds? Especially when she is stressed. Oh no, then the donut/sinful coffee diet would definitely be out, no matter how much she wanted them. I wonder if she sits alone at a table in a diner, eating her oatmeal (please hold the brown sugar; I'll take a packet of Equal instead, please) and drinking her herbal tea, watching hungrily as fat truck drivers sit by the bar with their buttcracks hanging out of their stained jeans, stuffing their gobs with those very donuts. Fruity jelly dripping down their chins, swigging the hot, decadent cups of coffees without even realizing how damned lucky they are to have the freedom to enjoy those dilectable treats.
No worry, she probably figures that it's only a matter of time before they retire, obese and unhealthy from their sedentary careers and gluttonous appetites, forced by their doctors and very own fat children to eat the same funless oatmeal and herbal teas that she was now suffering through.
"Honey, con I heelp zou veet samting? Arrrre zou okeee?" she asks in a high-pitched nasally voice, studded awkwardly with a Nordic accent. She has coffee-tainted breath, covered unsuccessfully by a mild mint. I was wrong about the coffee. Maybe she drinks decaf?
I stare at her, embarassed that she has caught me fantasizing about her and her life. I notice she has dark brown eyes that are striking against the lack of eyebrows and lashes and toe-headed hair. She has lots of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, like she has spent most of her life laughing and talking.
"Um, oh, uh. No, ma'am, I'm ok. I've had a bit of a rough day..." I trail off as the reality of my own life sets back in and my voice wavers at the end of the sentence. She stares at me, directly in the eyes and I think that she must have been pretty intimidating in her day.
"Eez zere anysing I con dooo?" she asks, a worried look creating even more wrinkles across her furrowed brow. I believe her. I think she really wants to help. So I let her.
"My grandma died today," I softly say as tears begin to roll down my cheeks again. I can't help it and I am angry at myself for unloading my grief on this stranger, this elderly lady who probably has see enough sadness. I can't help it as I unload my sorrow and so I let my head drop and close my eyes.
I almost immediately feel a soft touch on my wringed hands. She has put her hand on mine. That hand that has been wrinkled with time, contradictedly made rough with decades of hard work and at the same time somehow soft, papery and thin, like an angel's wings. Her fingers envelope mine and a sob escapes me. She brings her other arm around me and silently brings me into her chest.
I am broken, wretching, smooshed against her bosom, against that yellow knitted sweater, against that pink cheesy shirt, my cheek directly on that small red stain. If I close my eyes and just inhale her, she is my granny and I am given an extra moment that should have never come, but somehow has.
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