The quiet transformation

The chairs remained unoccupied until I realised life must go on

As we grew older, we found the simple pleasures in life could be so rewarding. We would take a gentle walk around the walking path, going only as fast as she could walk, and soon she would sit in a chair by the side of the track, and I would continue, at a brisker pace, to finish my thirty minutes of walking.

After some time the children playing in the garden would begin to come and speak to her, at first very tentatively, and later there would be an inconsequential conversation going between the old lady and the children. Often the children appeared to seek a reason to spend time with her, sometimes beginning with a question like, “Have you seen my Mamma?” 

In time, adults also would stop by and have a short conversation before continuing their walk. This was the beginning of a small community – the old lady, the children, the adults and I, who would have finished my walk and joined her. As more people joined the group, she began to get to know them all by name, and each conversation began to be a small interlude before they continued their play or walk. The children and the adult walkers had a common purpose of either playing or walking around the walking track, but she soon got established as the kind old lady with a ready response. The transformation was almost imperceptible. She had always been friendly but shy. And here she was, a friend to young and old, known to all as being available for a short chat or a complaint from the children when they had a small quarrel with one of their friends.

She was always thin and, with age and illness, had become frail. One evening she became ill after dinner and had to be moved to hospital. It was just a short three days in the ICU, and one afternoon, around lunchtime, she quietly slipped away.

The chairs around the walking track remained unoccupied for a few weeks. The children played around the chairs but had nobody to make inconsequential conversation with. The adults remembered her as the aunty with a smile who was always willing to discuss the weather. 

It took me a couple of months to go down and walk alone. I told myself that life must go on, and I have begun to walk, but never to sit in that chair. Till one evening I did sit, and adults stopped to talk about the weather and other inconsequential topics. For a couple of days nobody mentioned her. But soon they began to talk about all that they had discussed with her and how they missed her gentle smile.

I now sit there, taking part in gentle conversations. In my mind there is still that empty chair beside me, and I can almost hear her giving an opinion. The banter has returned to the conversations, and very soon I hear a quiet voice saying, “Come, let’s go home; the mosquitoes have started biting.” I still sorely miss that happy association of sixty-two years and wait for another empty chair to be created. 

Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author's own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.