Love without Romance

No, it’s not really a love story by standards as we know. This story is about a senior citizen. I know you never see yourself becoming one, one day. I’d like to be inspiring on your level of denial, but I must remind you, one day your will be one. Therefore, take stock now and prepare yourself by living in a way to inspire someone to care about you when you are eighty-two.

I often see her walking about fast; it’s a blessing because she’s eighty-two. She speaks to everyone she encounters with respect and with a caring voice. If necessary she offers a word of encouragement and makes you wonder why she’s so happy; she’s old and lives alone and is often disregarded.

“It is my God; he takes care of all my needs. That’s why I’m so happy.” She says genuinely.

I’m­­­­-- guilty of pretending.

“How are you Mrs. Patinance?” I’m asked.

“Wonderful, I’m fine. How are you?”

She wears her wig crooked and sometimes cannot find her dental partials and when she talks to you, it’s hard to suppress your humorous disposition, because she actually looks a little funny when she smiles. Her sweet personality cancels that uncontrollable fury of laughter that’s waiting beneath to be released in a moment of such humor, and makes you nearly regret you know how to hoot.

“Hello Mrs. Rimpton, how are you?”

“I’m just fine; it’s a pretty day, isn’t it. I’m on my way to church. They are having a special program for the youth today.”

It takes a painful pulling from the deep pit of my stomach and an excruciating adjustment of my spirit to say, Oh, Mrs. Rimpton, today is Wednesday. My sympathies hold out in hope of hearing her say, oh I know, but instead she says, “Oh my goodness is today not Sunday?”

“No, madam today is Wednesday. Do you want to ride to church with me on Sunday?”

The younger people in our neighborhood are all too apparent as they chuckle when seeing her on all such occasions. I hold my fear and evade the thoughts that I’ll be her someday. Each time I encounter her on such occasions, I walk her home and sit and chat with her for a while. I endure the guilt of wanting to chuckle myself when she tells me the same thing over and over, and smile over missing teeth. My sympathies override my hilarity and I always feel encouraged because she does ask, “Did I tell you…”

“No madam,” I say each time and ready myself to be entertained again and I’m selfishly grateful for the chuckle she inspires within my spirit. I take advantage for my own personal relief whenever I feel overloaded, or I’m having a bad day or simply want to take time out from my real life. I have learned her language. I tell her of the things that’s’ happened in my life that I’m proud of, over and over, and each time my reward is to receive just as much interest and excitement and congratulations, as the first time I told her. Her attitude is a reminder that I can tell her things that will be kept secret, and I don’t have to worry that my problems disturb her being; it is just for the moment that they add to welcoming comfort and provide her a placating moment in time for her spirit to be inspired by helping someone celebrate or solve a life dilemma.

She speaks endless of her concern and caring for the youth; my gratitude overflows. She has no recall of their chuckling disrespect whenever she makes herself visible; she does not know they don’t care otherwise; out of sight, out of mind.

Once she asked me, “Mrs. Patinance, do you think young folk realize they will be old someday?”