(no subject)
An old lady fell on seventh avenue.
She was walking down the street, her hair white, her coat weathered, and then suddenly fell, very quickly, face first. She fell directly forward, unable to put her hands out to soften her fall. Face first, against the asphalt.
Right in front of me.
I ran up to her and helped her turn over and sit up. I asked her what hurt.
“How could I… How could it…” she said.
Blood was running down her face, and she was rubbing it with her hands, trying to understand where exactly she was bleeding from. Someone ran to get the cops, who were parked across the street. I took the napkins from a boy, who was standing and staring. I gently touched her face with them, unable to tell where the blood was coming from - so much of it - not wanting to hurt her, unable to stop the blood.
She touched her face with her bloody hands.
“Please don’t touch your face, your hands are dirty,” I begged, putting a shoe, which flew off during her fall, back on her little foot.
“How could it…” she said.
I kept on asking her her name. I wanted to call someone and say, your sister, your mother, your grandmother, she fell, and she is hurting, and then, then someone would surely rush there and help her.
But she only said, how could it, how could it, how could it.
The policemen strolled up to us. The taller one talked to someone on his radio. An 80-year old woman, he said, she’s bleeding. I tried to explain to him how she fell, face first, but he wouldn’t listen.
We sat on the ground, her and I, people standing around us, policement standing a few meters away. I rubbed her back and I wiped her face and I asked her to wait (for whom? for what?) while she repeated the same words.
The ambulance came a few minutes and helped her up. She turned around and whispered, thank you.
I went into the bathroom at Starbucks and burst into tears.
A few days before that I ran into a café on 57th street to grab a bite before meeting a friend. I ordered a panini and asked the boys behind the counter not to warm it up to save time.
At the table next to me, there was an old man. Thick glasses, thin white hair, and wrinkles, wrinkles, wrinkles. Strange how with the exception of only very beautiful people, about whom people say - yes, she must have been stunning when he was younger - except for them other old people look alike, so fragile, so touching.
In his hand, he held an empty coffee cup, squeezing it, and looked out the window, motionless. When I sat down at the table next to him, he looked in my direction. I tried to smile, and then understood that I cannot eat because I can only think about how lonely he must be. Forcing myself to take small bites, I was glancing at the door, imagining that he’s just waiting for someone - his wife, his children - and that the door will open and someone will run in with joyous cries, “grandpaaaa!”
The door open and a group of teenage girls whirled into the café. There suddenly was a shortage of table.
The old man sat at his table, squeezing the cup in his hand. Then he turned to me and said: “Could you eat at my table?” It seems that he didn’t even notice the girls, who immediately occupied my place.
I sat at his table and tried to eat. He sat across from me and looked out the window. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s spring now,” he said.
“It’s spring,” I echoed.
He was silent a moment. I took a sip of coffee. He squeezed the cup.
“She didn’t make it to spring,” he said.
“I know,” I said, for some reason.
“How could it…” he said, and looked out the window.
I wanted to say, do you want me to come back here? Do you want me to come here every day, after work? Do you want me to sit with you? You’ll look out the window, and I’ll blab about something, and you and I will imagine that there will be something, there will be something after this, in this life.
But instead I crumpled up the napkins and took the last sip of coffee.
He nodded. I sat a few more minutes and got up to leave. He didn’t say anything.
How could it? I don’t know…
She was walking down the street, her hair white, her coat weathered, and then suddenly fell, very quickly, face first. She fell directly forward, unable to put her hands out to soften her fall. Face first, against the asphalt.
Right in front of me.
I ran up to her and helped her turn over and sit up. I asked her what hurt.
“How could I… How could it…” she said.
Blood was running down her face, and she was rubbing it with her hands, trying to understand where exactly she was bleeding from. Someone ran to get the cops, who were parked across the street. I took the napkins from a boy, who was standing and staring. I gently touched her face with them, unable to tell where the blood was coming from - so much of it - not wanting to hurt her, unable to stop the blood.
She touched her face with her bloody hands.
“Please don’t touch your face, your hands are dirty,” I begged, putting a shoe, which flew off during her fall, back on her little foot.
“How could it…” she said.
I kept on asking her her name. I wanted to call someone and say, your sister, your mother, your grandmother, she fell, and she is hurting, and then, then someone would surely rush there and help her.
But she only said, how could it, how could it, how could it.
The policemen strolled up to us. The taller one talked to someone on his radio. An 80-year old woman, he said, she’s bleeding. I tried to explain to him how she fell, face first, but he wouldn’t listen.
We sat on the ground, her and I, people standing around us, policement standing a few meters away. I rubbed her back and I wiped her face and I asked her to wait (for whom? for what?) while she repeated the same words.
The ambulance came a few minutes and helped her up. She turned around and whispered, thank you.
I went into the bathroom at Starbucks and burst into tears.
A few days before that I ran into a café on 57th street to grab a bite before meeting a friend. I ordered a panini and asked the boys behind the counter not to warm it up to save time.
At the table next to me, there was an old man. Thick glasses, thin white hair, and wrinkles, wrinkles, wrinkles. Strange how with the exception of only very beautiful people, about whom people say - yes, she must have been stunning when he was younger - except for them other old people look alike, so fragile, so touching.
In his hand, he held an empty coffee cup, squeezing it, and looked out the window, motionless. When I sat down at the table next to him, he looked in my direction. I tried to smile, and then understood that I cannot eat because I can only think about how lonely he must be. Forcing myself to take small bites, I was glancing at the door, imagining that he’s just waiting for someone - his wife, his children - and that the door will open and someone will run in with joyous cries, “grandpaaaa!”
The door open and a group of teenage girls whirled into the café. There suddenly was a shortage of table.
The old man sat at his table, squeezing the cup in his hand. Then he turned to me and said: “Could you eat at my table?” It seems that he didn’t even notice the girls, who immediately occupied my place.
I sat at his table and tried to eat. He sat across from me and looked out the window. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s spring now,” he said.
“It’s spring,” I echoed.
He was silent a moment. I took a sip of coffee. He squeezed the cup.
“She didn’t make it to spring,” he said.
“I know,” I said, for some reason.
“How could it…” he said, and looked out the window.
I wanted to say, do you want me to come back here? Do you want me to come here every day, after work? Do you want me to sit with you? You’ll look out the window, and I’ll blab about something, and you and I will imagine that there will be something, there will be something after this, in this life.
But instead I crumpled up the napkins and took the last sip of coffee.
He nodded. I sat a few more minutes and got up to leave. He didn’t say anything.
How could it? I don’t know…