Her tiny, diminutive form slipped out the door of her apartment and into the hallway. In the prime of bone density, she might have claimed the height of 5 foot (in shoes). Time and osteoporosis (or something of that ilk) whittled her away to a size that put her, uh, well, approximately at eye level with my breasts. This, combined with the worry that even abysmal upper body strength could crush her, made the hug she gave me the first day I was back especially awkward.
Her Cinderella-sized feet padded down the carpeted hallway, coming to a stop just outside my parents’ door. One hand clutched into a bony fist, poised to knock, the other hand wrapped tightly around a jar. A new jar every night. A jar for every day of the week. Today perhaps of tomato sauce, tomorrow perhaps of apple sauce, maybe Wednesday would be olives.
She knocked on the door and waited. Could she sense the feeling of annoyance from those of us behind the door? Could she hear the audible sigh from my father who had just finished making dinner? Who had only a minute before finally sat down to enjoy a meal with his family? No, no, of course she couldn’t, I tell myself, hoping beyond hope that’s the truth. Read More
