Last week I was strolling to the subway through picturesque Greenwich Village at dusk, enjoying the spring evening. As I was crossing Bank Street, I saw another older woman crossing from the other side trip and fall. Instantly several people came over to see if she needed help. She was shaken and had bruised her knees, but was completely clear-headed. Several young people helped her back on her feet, and she told them she was OK. I assured them, truthfully, that I was happy to stay with her. I said the same to others who came up to see if the two old women with canes needed any help. New York is like that.
The woman rubbed her knees gingerly and ascertained that nothing was seriously awry. Also that maybe she should take a cab the rest of the way home. I seconded that idea, and offered to walk her across Hudson Street and put her in one.
The woman had excellent lipstick and a twinkle in her eye. As we crossed the street she said with an emphatic sigh, “I was doing so well.”
I don’t have much of a filter. I burst out laughing, and said, “I say that all the time.” Then blurted, “I hope you know I’m not laughing at you.”
“Oh no,” she responded. “You’re laughing at us.”
Indeed I was.
How wonderfully vivid. Thank you, Ashton, for acknowledging that line where the losses and the gains of aging meet.
Lovely … ! But, whenever I am feeling sorry for my chronic, severe arthritis pain in my feet, ankles, and knees, I remember there are little children battling cancer. What else can we do but laugh?