A Squeeze of a Hand

“I still can’t get over it,” the bent woman said to her friend. They sat next to each other on the almost heartlessly rigid subway seats the Metropolitan Transit Authority provides for straphangers. With fares at two dollars, with a threat of increasing once again this year, would it be a lot to ask for a nice cushioned seating device on which to park one’s posterior? Just a little cushion – half an inch.

“Can’t get over what?” asked the friend.

“Julie.”

The friend raised a hand to her ear and said, “What?”

“Julie, my daughter,” said the old woman, a little louder this time.

I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. I was standing right in front of them, holding onto the overhead pole, trying to read my book, but since the one woman seemed hard of hearing, their voices were a few decibels louder than usual.

When I say the one woman was bent, I believe she had osteoporosis because she was hunched over at the shoulders, on the critical verge of being deemed a hunchback, but not like the one from Notre Dame. The other woman was much taller and sat up straight like a beanpole. Even sitting down she towered above the other people. If I were to make a guess, I’d say they were both in their late sixties. My mom used to wear a perfume called “Beautiful”, and that’s what I smelled; that and – strangely – tapioca. They both had sweet, delicate voices, the kind that I could listen to for days as they read aloud some Mark Twain or perhaps a few poems by Dickinson or Millay.

I’m not making this up, but I could feel the compassion they had for each other; it was palpable. They were great, long-time friends whose eyes alone and together had seen and experienced so very much that my own meanderings paled in comparison. Who were they? Where were they going?

“Oh, yes,” said the tall woman, “It’s so sad, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” the bent woman said softly, shaking her head.

“Hmm?”

“I SAID I can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Oh yes. My mother’s been gone five years and I’m still going through her closet trying to throw things away.”

The bent woman swung her head up and said, “Whenever I read or see something interesting, I still think, ‘Oh, Julie will like this.’”

I usually don’t try to intentionally eavesdrop on a conversation. I figure it’s none of my business, but the pathos gripped me and said, “Listen.”

The grief of losing my mother has run the gamut around my heart lately. As each day goes by, I don’t miss her any less. I think about her every day, but not as often as I did one, two, five months ago, but the pain that wells up when I do is unabated. I actually woke up one recent morning after a fantastic dream in which I was swimming with dolphins and thought, ‘I’m going to call Mommy and tell her about it.’ And then I realized: I can’t do that anymore. This doesn’t dispel my belief that she’s with me always, that she’s doing even greater spiritual work than she did here on earth. I accept that. But I still miss her physical presence in this life; I miss picking up the phone and simply calling to say hi. For three years, I called her almost every day because I knew that when she did die, I didn’t want to have any regrets.

Two of my grandmother’s boys died way back when – one at two months old, the other when he was nine. Grandmom said that unless I lost a child, I’d never know the pain. “No parent should ever have to bury a child,” she often said.

I don’t have children and probably never will. I can’t imagine what the bent woman must have been going through. I didn’t know how long it was since her daughter had passed, but as Grandmom said, “It’s something you never, ever get over.” For seventy years, a day didn’t go by in which she didn’t think of her two sons.

I wanted to say something to the bent woman, but I didn’t. I think it’s too easy to say life goes on, they’re in a better place, it was your daughter’s path, and all the other things said in sympathy to another person’s loss that doesn’t mean a tinker’s cuss to the grieving.

The tall woman grabbed the bent woman’s hand and gave it a squeeze and the two of them smiled. I think in that one gesture they shared a silent moment that transcended trite words and idioms – a true example of empathy and love. Nothing else needed to be said. They were quiet for two more stops, and then got off at 96th Street. The train pulled out of the station, and through the window I saw the tall woman take her friend’s arm and help her towards the exit.