Walks home: One, Two

Some walks are sad, some with apprehension, some with joy, some with heavy lids and aching bodies, some with laughter and hands interlaced together, some with another person, some are alone and some are like today, mindful.

One

  On the walk home from Popo's house, there were pink and white flowers. Pink; like the streaks in the sky during sunset, like the flush on a newly wed bride's cheeks, like the little dress that you will doll your daughter who hasn't arrived yet in.

White; like the sea foam that rolls away from our toes, like the frozen yogurt couples feed each other with a spoon, like the empty sheet of paper that i have between me and you, with words dying to be poured out yet neither of us willing to bleed ink.

Two

 At the traffic junction, the lights turned red yet an old lady stepped out on to the gravel road, dragging her bad leg forward, oblivious to the line of cars gearing up to move.

  A moment's pause.

  "Are you serious," i blurt out to no one in particular.

  There was a rush forward, and then my fastest attempt in getting the old woman onto the middle ledge of the road. The cars roared past us.

  I reached for the chunky white plastic bag that held her dinner- 2 packets of chicken rice, one for herself the other for a son whom i can only imagine to be either really reckless or helpless. The smell of chicken was almost revolting having it so close to my nose but that wasn't the point. This grandma can't even hold herself upright for long. The traffic lights turned green and we hobbled down the road. I couldn't really help her much in relieving any pain in her legs but i suppose having someone to hobble with makes the journey at least a tiny bit less lonely, a little less menacing.

  When we got to the other side of the road, i couldn't leave her there to walk home alone.
God knows if she will faint of exhaustion.
She pointed a flight of stairs and while I tried to help her get on each step, my aid was useless in alleviating her pain. With every increment of concrete, she had to heave herself up by clinging on to the rail on her right, and with eyes shut tight, she forces one leg to get up on the step, followed by a "ouch ouch ouch, it hurts" as she brings her other leg up on to the same step.

  This dreadful act continued 6 times before she got to the top of the flight of stairs.

  Beads of sweat and anguish streaked her face, settling in her wrinkles and fine lines.

  Being rendered helpless, all I could do was carry her bags of groceries and follow her slowly, eventually getting to the elevator.

  I followed her up to the third floor, and was greeted with the pungent stench of urine and dirt.
The corridor was narrow and cluttered with objects strewn all over.
The first apartment had cardboard boxes stacked in piles outside it's door, the next had empty aluminium cans, so on and so forth until we reached the last few doors at the end of the row.

  As we passed by the apartments, one of them had its door open, and the old granny peered in and waved to another old lady seated in it. There was a quick exchange in hokkien which I could not make sense of, but they both laughed and it did not seem odd at all that neither of them were particularly mobile.

  It was as if they are oblivious to their living conditions, or perhaps they made an active decision to ignore their plight and live with the most they had- friends.

  While walking home, I figured that perhaps when we grow old and have seen the world for a time that's "long enough", we too will realise that there isn't much in big houses, money or beauty and will instead focus on what's little but matter most- friends, health and memories.

-to be or maybe not to be continued-