By Nisha Shirali
The old woman at the school playground smiles at my toddler son, Elijah, as she hobbles down the track on her walker. She speaks in a foreign language and points with delight toward his sandcastle.
She’s rewarded with a giggle from my son, who doesn’t understand her words but feels the affection. Elijah’s health is in a perpetual state of uncertainty, and it’s the first moment of lightness we’ve had all week. I feel my heart relax in the woman’s presence.
When she hobbles away, Elijah follows her and tugs at her knee-length cream dress. He opens his hand to show off a treasure, probably part of his extensive rock collection. She takes the rock and leaves him with a broad smile on his cherubic face.
I feel the urge to know more about her. The moment is slipping away from me. I ignore decorum and jog up to her.
“I’m Kira. What’s your name?” I ask.
“Isabelle,” she says.
Our broken language conversation reveals she lives nearby and has three sons and four grandchildren.
“Do you see them often?” I ask.
“Sometimes,” she says, blue eyes turning glassy.
A few seconds of silence pass. Elijah busies himself with playing with the edges of her dress, which she doesn’t seem to mind.
“I don’t have any family around,” I blurt. “It’s just the two of us.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I love you,” she says. Her eyes are kind, and she reminds me of my late grandmother.
It might be the language barrier that causes her to say these intimate words with such ease, but I cling to them like a shipwreck survivor.
She begins to plod away, and I’m struck with fear that I may never see her again. My son tugs on my shirt, eyes wide and eyebrows knotted together—he shares my trepidation.
I catch up to her again. Her eyes wrinkle at the corners and her mouth upturns.
“Hello, dear.”
“Can I… have your number?” I ask, like a nervous teenager in high school.
We exchange numbers, and my heart is full as I leave the playground.
That night, Elijah has a seizure, and I rush him to the hospital. I’m overwhelmed by the new medications added to my existing list and the myriad of tests required for a diagnosis.
When we return home, loneliness creeps over me along with the dark. Elijah’s dad and I separated two years ago, and I haven’t let anyone back into my life since.
After putting my son to bed, I fill a glass with red wine and pad into the living room to watch a movie I’ve watched many times before.
My phone rings and I pick up without looking. A honeyed, delicate voice comes through.
“Hello?”
Hope swells in my chest.
“Is this Isabelle?” I ask.
“It is and who’s this? I saw your number on my phone but couldn’t remember whom it belonged to.”
“Kira? Elijah’s mom? We met at the playground.” I’m desperate for her to remember us. Everyone else forgets.
“Ah, yes, I remember,” she says. My shoulders slump with relief. “Are you coming to the playground again today?”
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Alright, dear. I love you.”
* * *
Nisha Shirali is a writer, policy analyst and mom of three boys based in Ontario. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Litbreak Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine. She can be found at www.nishashirali.com.