Old Woman

What do old women do at 3 in the afternoon when they can not see to sew or read or drive, when they can not stand to watch another minute of tv, when they remember a young friend, call out her name yet decide not to call her, not to be a burden.
What do we do for an old woman who tells us years of her life in broken English peppered with Persian, smiling because she’s not alone on her brown leather sofa, who loves our children like family because our children love her first, who feeds us bean soup with crackers and cuts up banana for our children?
Do we feel life in her photos, the ones on the dusted coffee table next to a glass bowl full of m&m’s, the pictures of her beloved children now grown and scattered and the faces of her dear granchildren? Do we catch the adventure in her shaky retelling of past adventures in other countries, or do we nod politely and miss the gift? Do we let ourselves cry when the richness of her lost years and her frustration at growing old opens our heart?
When we leave her living room in early evening for our books, errands and quiet family time at home, do we hug the old woman, tell her, “I love you?” When she hugs us, do we go through the motions or savor the feel of her soft thin skin on our cheek?