Helping hand

Words 299

New York is a ghost town. Previously, my city block would have been teeming with life as the inhabitants of this crazy city live their frantic lives. No cars, no manic sounding of horns, just the sight of garbage and the sound of empty cans blowing up the deserted streets. Something changed overnight, but it is something we can’t see, touch, taste or smell.


“It looks like rain,” I stare out of my fifth-floor window at the grey pavement below, “and look, Dave, there goes that old woman again, pushing a pram.
My husband comes to stand next to me. He slides open the window and leans out. “Hey you!” He shouts down to the old crone as she continues her solitary journey. “You need to stay off the street, lady, haven’t you heard we’re in lockdown?”
She slows and looks around, unsure if someone is speaking to her.
“Up here!” Dave yells.
At last she sees who it is that’s calling, her tired face lifts up to our building, and she spots my husband waving and calling her.
“I have a question,” he shouts, “are you okay, do you need help?”
She simply shakes her head and carries on walking, waving a salute with a gloved hand as if to acknowledge his concern.
“I’m going down,” Dave grabs his coat from the hall stand.
“Do you think that’s a good idea? She might be infected.”
“We're still human, babe,” he whispers, “I need to check she’s okay, there may be something we can do to help.”


I watch as he reaches the street and runs to catch up; he slows as he nears, perhaps he’s intending to keep a safe distance.
They talk, I see her smile, and she reaches out and touches his face.