Bittersweet

I purchased a pair of sandals yesterday for an upcoming trip to Hawaii.  While unlocking my truck to leave the store where I made the purchase, I noticed an SUV pulling up along a curb near the storefront entrance.  Just as I started climbing into my seat, I saw that a tattered old woman had climbed from the SUV.  Leaning against her cane, she struggled to step out of the way so she might close the door.

She looked as if on the verge of tipping over.

I quickly pitched my new sandals to the far side of the bench seat and scrambled across the parking lot to reach the SUV.  I arrived just a she managed to swing the door closed.  “Would you mind if I walked into the store with you?” I asked.

She eyed me with doubt, still leaning hard against her cane.

“It would be my pleasure,” I assured her.  “Where are you headed?”

“The beauty parlor.”

“Not that you need it!” I said.   I watched as her doubt softened and then I reached to link my arm with her free arm.  “Please allow me to go with you.”

The old woman linked her arm with mine and we slowly waddled toward the glass doors of the store.  The high sun made her ridiculously red hair glow as if neon.  I asked her how she was doing.  “I feel pretty good,” she told me.  “I battled the flu for a while, but I am on the mend now.”

“Good!  I am glad to hear that.”   I progressed slowly and made certain that I did not outpace the placement of her cane.  “And now we have this great spring weather.”

“Time for planting,” she said.

“Yep.  Flowers,” I added, smiling at her.

I helped the old woman navigate through the two sets of doors.  Once we got inside the store, the woman said to me: “I’ll be fine from here.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  I want you to have nice rest of the day.”

With nothing more said, I left the store and walked back to my truck.  Not until I had climbed inside the truck and shut the door did the thought strike me that, on perhaps this very day one year ago, I allowed Uyen to slip from my arms as I tried to transfer her out of her wheelchair.  She fell to the floor in a heap, no longer able to so much as convince her body to sit upright.

My serene wife was fading away.  In less than two weeks, she would be gone.

Uyen lay on the carpet that day, laughing, thinking it so very funny that I dropped her.

I stood above her, not laughing, but crying.

As I sat in my truck yesterday, I realized that I should have kissed that old woman before leaving her there in the store.  I should have looked her straight in the eyes and then kissed her cheek.  I started my truck, backed out of my parking spot, and drove away while wiping new tears from my under my eyes.

--Mitchell Hegman