Old Woman

On our way out of the grocery store parking lot, I watched an old woman begin to cross Main street. One foot stepped forward, barely leaving pavement, then she moved her bag one step forward, followed by the next foot.
I recognized her. David offered her a ride home last year after we waited in line behind her for several minutes. We realized she was intending to walk (very slowly) home.
So tonight, not willing to drive away and let her spend ten minutes moving like molasses, hoping all cars see her in her gray sweater and denim skirt at dusk, I offered her a ride the few blocks to her apartment.
Her body is bent at an angle that allows her to see to her left easily but not to her right without considerable effort. When I called to her she stopped, tilted her head to the left. I repeated my offer. Slight nod. I threw my vehicle in park, ran around the back of my van, picked up her grocery bag and set it just inside the door. Then I walked over to her, reaching out my hand to help and in hopes that my assistance would speed her pace. I was struck and calmed by the softness of her hand. No longer allowing myself to indulge in impatience, I observed that her skirt, sweater and large tan orthepedic shoes were spottlessly clean.
She said she only needed to go to the corner nearest her apartment and would be fine from there. Because I remembered the slow scene last year, after a brief confusion looking for her corner, I asked permission to pull into her driveway, brought her groceries to her front door and came back to find her slowly looking for her house keys.
During the long wait, as she sifted through her make shift purse (a green reusable grocery bag) she told me about her cat, her upstairs neighbor the busy music student and a stray couch left in her alleyway. Once she found her keys, I brought her purse to her front door. When I returned, she took my hand, scooted inch by inch to standing, and we walked – all the while she told me about how her cat scratched up the alley couch, how she was considering seeking social services for help even though she didn’t want to be a bother and how dangerous her driveway could be in winter – half a foot at a time around the front of our van, along a cracked sidewalk, up the stairs, where I left her at her front door.
I had my kids and one of their friends in the van so I felt I should get going. She asked my name and thanked me sweetly.
Not two blocks later, I wondered why I felt the need to rush away before she was safely in. Hadn’t my children been doing fine all along? In the shadow of my doubts, I pictured my new friend falling from her place at the top of the stairs before she had a chance to get keys in door and inside her apartment. I saw her crumpled in a bloody ball on the bottom step. I tried to go on, convince myself she was fine. But that small voice of doubt wouldn’t hush.
I quickly rounded back, shoulders growing tense. How does time bend backward in the presence of fear? Driving down Illinois, I passed the front her house which was now dark and empty. I drove home grateful my impatience hadn’t been rewarded with tragedy. I knew I was being unreasonable but knowledge and emotions are often at odds.
Once home, I could still feel the impression of her soft hand in mine. I wondered what stories I missed.