Forty-one Years

The old lady hobbled into the coffee shop with an affected limp. Her legs gave in to the forward motion of the rollator and moved like they didn't have opinion or an option. I watched her scrutinize the items on the menu listed on the colorful board behind the counter. I knew she was going to get the regular, house-blend coffee with 2 spoons of sugar and cream, but she continued to scratch her quivering lower lip like she intended to prove me wrong.

After a good minute and a half, the women barked authoritatively with an Italian accent, "A small, regular, house-blend coffee, cream and 2 spoons of sugar." She added a 'please' as an afterthought, more like a tip instead of a request. She glared angrily as she waited for her cup of coffee. I followed her stare to look at the friendly snow falling to the ground and the mounds collected on the sidewalk. The roads hadn't changed much in the last forty-one years.

I looked back to see her move swiftly, coffee in one hand, to her regular seat by the window. Carefully setting the coffee on the table, she folded her rolling walker and let it rest by her table. She rubbed her right knee as she continued to look at the roads outside carpeted with white fluff.

"You know, if I knew that wheels were better than skis on this walker, I would have got them fitted in the first place.", she announced to her coffee as she raised the cup to her lips.

"Excuse me?", said the young chap seated at the next table, looking up from the book that he was reading.

The woman continued to speak to her coffee. "The skis get stuck in the snow more often than they glide. And before you know it, you are flying over to the other side." The young chap leaned forward courteously to meet the old lady's eyes.

"5 years back it happened to me. My husband and I were walking down to the Espresso shop. I flew and broke my hip. He continued to walk and didn't even notice.", she chuckled fondly. "I had to go into surgery to get a replacement done.", she looked in my direction.

I stared down at my limbs and wondered what it must feel like to walk with an artificial hip. I was thirty-three years old, married to a fine, young man who used to work down at the mills.

She told her newfound coffee shop companion about how she was born and brought up in Arlington and lived a majority of her life in New England. I fondly recollected my childhood memories. The snow was always the same, even though it seemed like the enemy these days. My father owned a house over the hill in Arlington, and I went to university at Amherst, and then moved to Boston for work.

The man talked about how his job got him to Boston. She scorned at him when he informed her that he moved there from Los Angeles but relaxed when she got to know that he was natively from Paris. I smiled at my month long honeymoon in Paris. The place had an electricity that I could never forget. Barry and I could never make it to Paris after that. I wondered what Barry was up to these days. How must he look now?

The woman rambled on about how she detested the earthquakes in California and the hurricanes in Florida didn't tempt her to move there. She lied about her love for New England, and how she never felt like moving any place else. I remember the gloomy skies of Seattle, how I fell in love with the smell in the air. The city transfused its energy into me, I remember feeling light like a feather. I also remember how sad I was when I had to move back to Boston. But the city had grown over me. Perhaps, I had genuinely forgotten about Seattle, it was indeed a long time back ago. Forty-one years ago. May be, I did start loving New England afterwards.

"My husband can't use a walker." So, he was still alive. Thank goodness. "He is a strong man, and can still walk." She cracked heartily at her own joke. The young man smiled chivalrously and glanced at me. I was positive that he could see me. I smiled back at him.

"Shirley, how's your leg doing?", she asked the other lady who had motored her way into the shop. Shirley pretended to not hear. That was not nice, I thought. The young man went back to his reading, he looked a bit relieved. I wasn't sure if I should thank him for being nice to the old lady before or be angry that he seemed a bit relieved to not make any further conversation.

"Any luck with those lottery tickets?", the old lady nosily cajoled the man seated opposite Shirley. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her anymore. She got up from her seat and hobbled over to them, "You know, these wheels are better than them skis. It took me a broken hip to understand that." She jested. She didn't seem to notice that there was nobody laughing with her. I felt sorry.

The woman hopped back to the counter. "Could you make another coffee, while I step out for a while?" I followed her outside to the sidewalk, where she promptly flicked a light to the cigarette dangling from her mouth. I was alarmed. Forty-one years was indeed a long time to go from sane to cranky, from young to old, from Seattle to Boston. But somethings, along with how I took my coffee didn't seem to have changed. I was still smoking my Marlboros.