By Chantal Patenaude
The delicate old woman at a standstill, barely leaning on her cane, stood out on Monkland Avenue. I asked if she needed help. “If you don’t mind,” she replied revealing her sharp green eyes from underneath her short-brimmed hat.
Just like Mom had been, she was petite—elegant in her mid-length cotton skirt, buttoned up white cardigan, with a light coat of neutral lipstick—and frail.
I asked her where she was going. “Home,” she pointed across the street. At turtle pace, while holding her manicured hand, we reached the other side of the crossway long after the walk signal stopped flashing.
Flo told me she’d lost her husband of 69 years. “I like to do things myself. But it’s too hot today, I only bought my newspaper,” she raised the reusable shopping bag worn in the crook of her elbow.
I fondly remembered my mother, a catch in my throat. She loved to browse in the stationery store.
Flo, now 92, had been a nurse and cared for dementia patients. “I’m lucky I didn’t get that dreadful disease,” she halted. The squeeze of her hand made my heart twist.
On her doorstep, just above the immaculate lawn and flower bed, she confirmed that she lived alone in the lower duplex. The dread that shook my insides for years resurfaced. “Will you have some water now?” I suggested. With a smile that reached her eyes, she replied, “I’ll have tea, I’m Scottish.”
I loosened my grip and let her go.
* * *
Chantal Patenaude lives in Montreal, Quebec. She is currently working on a memoir about her mother. An excerpt was published in Healthing.