springs in her favorite stuffed chair are long gone, making it hard for her to exit the threadbare cushion, so she allows me to come in her home with only a knock before entering. On a small table, she has an antique Victrola that she still plays all the big band records. I've heard it many times on my daily treks. Today she sits on her rickety old porch with a glass of ice water beside her on a round wicker table badly in need of paint.
Oh terrific, she's waiting for me:
"You're late." She says in her scolding demeanor.
"Not by much. Seems as though Amy Smithburg brought her new baby home from the hospital and she had to introduce me."
"How sweet; what do you have for me today? I'm expecting something." She snatches the small stack I am holding for her.
I sat with her every day and listened to her repeat the same tales. When she got on a tangent about how bad the government was and how things used to be, I would excuse myself and be on my way. She is a bitter person. She does not take well to people. Me she liked, I stifle the foul odors and smile at her eccentricities. Her life hasn't been easy. Her entire family died over the years; those alive have chosen to ignore her.
One day Muriel did not answer the door. I knocked twice and there was no answer. She never locked her door, allowing me entrance by calling her name. Upon entering, I spot her in bed with her eyes closed. As I approached, her eyes opened and a faint whisper came from her lips:
"I've been waiting for you." She squeezed my hand gently as I sat on the edge of the bed. I sat in silence, holding her cold lifeless hand in mine. I sat with her for almost an hour without her uttering another word. Soon there was a deep sigh from the frail woman and she was gone. No one should have to die alone.
A Flash in the Pan Page 3