More Sugar

3020#. Punching in the entry code always made me feel like I was accessing something valuable; precious. Oddly enough, punching in the same code to get out always made me feel like I was the lucky one, able to leave.  

I walked briskly through the rabbit warren - turning right, then left, then right - to the dining lounge. Not once but twice had I been chased down and asked if I were the doctor on duty.
‘No, I’m just Maria’s neighbour.’ I am her neighbour - present tense.
As if Southern Cross Aged Care were a holiday destination -  and then she’d return home.

I spotted her at the table amongst the sea of grey hair and hearing aids.
‘Morning, Maria!’ I spoke loudly so she would hear; there’s no self-consciousness in this place.

She turned her head slowly and smiled. ‘Hello, dear, nice to see you.’

It was a good day then. One where I didn’t have to stare intently into her kind yet distant eyes, repeating ‘It’s Esther! Your neighbour!’

‘How are you, dear?’

‘Oh, good thanks. Just on my way to work. Late start today.’ Her ears were naked; I didn’t drop my decibels.

‘On your bike?’
I nodded. Gosh, it was a good day for her indeed.

‘How’s breakfast?’

‘The toast is stale!’ she stabbed a lifeless crust with her finger. ‘And the coffee bitter! Bah!’

‘Oh, but your nails look nice! Did you get them done this week?’

‘Sì, but the  pink is too dull. Why don’t they give me brighter? It should be brighter, no?’ She presented her hands to the man across the table, but alas, he was asleep. She folded them back into her lap.

‘I haven’t seen the grandchildren for weeks,’ she frowned, ‘not even one. And now I’ve forgotten their kid’s names! Imagine forgetting your great-grandchildren’s names!’ Her look of dismay turned to one of disgust. ‘Imagine forgetting your great-grandmother exists!’

‘Perhaps they’ve been sick? There’s a lot of winter bugs going around at the moment. In fact, at my work we’ve –’

‘They sold my house, you know,’ she interrupted softly.

‘They what?!’ I feigned surprise. I’d ridden past the sign for weeks.

 ‘They sold my house. Everything. And everything inside. And they didn’t even tell me.’

‘No…really? No-one sells houses with the furniture these days Maria.’ Especially not furniture from the 70s.

‘My house… gone! If I knew, I would stop them. Or I would go home and gather a few things to keep….’ She plucked objects from the air with her pink nails. ‘Just a few… just a few.’

Her voice was shaking now and her eyes moist. All these years, I’d never seen her cry. It’s possible she hadn’t – not since her daughter’s funeral.

‘I’m… sorry, Maria.’

‘I just…I just don’t understand. Why?’ her face pleaded for answers I couldn’t give.

‘I’d have walked there myself if I could. Just one more time…But my legs have pain. I tell the doctor, but he never listens. Nobody listens. The medicine I take - bah! Useless!’ She slapped her lonely legs. 

‘Oh, and the sewing machine! I wanted to give you the sewing machine.’ Her frail fingers grasped my arm, as if I would be the next disappearance. 

Now I was surprised. I had noted the old Singer in the shed, two Christmas’ ago. She knew I altered the bulk of my clothing myself. But there was no mention of the machine nor my (lack of) sewing skills since. Gosh her mind was still sharp. If only it weren’t the day the news leaked.

‘That’s so thoughtful of you! I’m sure it’s not been sold. I’ll ask Tony about it. I’ll message him right now.’ She scowled at the thought of her son-in-law and took another sip of her coffee.

‘Bah! I need more sugar! Excuse me, Nurse?’ She tried to turn to look for a passing aid, but wheelchairs are deceptively restrictive. 

‘Are you sure Maria? I know you have your coffee sweet enough to start.’

‘My tomatoes…’ She did have a bumper crop each year. Supplied the street all summer. ‘And my plants…’ She was a good gardener. Many of my pot plants had been rehabilitated in her care.
‘Why couldn’t he have brought my plants here?’ Fair question.

‘My ravioli in the freezer…’
The grandchildren did love her ravioli.
‘They will not get any more, even if they ask!’
 Correct, I suppose.
 ‘And my cat!’
 Correction: the neighbourhood stray she’d fed for years.
 ‘He’s probably dead now.’

‘Yes, Mrs Rossini, how can I help?’

‘Ah Nurse, two sugars please, here. It's bitter!’

‘Two?!’ I was shocked. ‘What about your diabetes!’ The doctor in me could not be restrained.
 ‘I’m quite certain there’s already three sugars in there,’ I informed the carer.

The young man added two more spoons to the half empty mug and gave a silent nod. A nod that suggested he knew - he knew because he had added the three sugars in the first place. After all, he was the aged care worker, not the geriatrician. He gave the mug a swirl and handed it back with a smile.

Maria took a sip and spat the coffee back out.

‘Bah! Still bitter!’

Blind Runner

I've always been a solo runner. For over two decades, running has been my time to think, pray, process, destress. To the rhythm of my feet, I write poems, compose tunes, grow ideas, plan projects. Running was - and still is - my therapy. 

Last year I joined Achilles as a sighted guide. Not only am I now running with others, I am literally attached. It has infused my running with whole new level of meaning. I point out the path; they help me see much more. Each synchronised step I am humbled, inspired, challenged.

And I am reminded that though this world can be dark – indeed, very dark - there is also light. Much light. 

Which sometimes takes the form of a blind runner and guide in yellow shirts. 

Hijab

I’d never seen her hair before.

It was a deep brown, pulled back into a loose bun, garnished with a floral clip. Her dark eyes, now framed by bangs, were more stunning than usual.

She opened the door wider. ‘You’re welcome.’

If the lack of head shawl wasn’t a warm enough welcome on a cold evening, her three-year-old made sure of it. He bounded around the corner, launched himself at my legs and grabbed my hand.
‘This is my house! This is my house!’ he declared, pulling me up the stairs.

Ramy’s voice only had one pitch (high) and one volume (loud). Everything was exciting at his age - especially in this new country and especially a visitor, so close to bedtime.

Little Aisha - a year younger and always a fraction slower than her brother – scrambled behind us. Using her small palms, she pushed me onto the couch and climbed onto my lap.

With the daze of beautiful hair and the commotion of children I almost forgot what I’d practiced all the way down the drive.
‘Eid Mubarak*,’ I offered

‘Eid Mubarak,’ Mariam smiled, chasing away the toddler and placing a cup of hot, sweet tea into my hands.

‘Shookran^. How is Ahmed?’ I asked.

‘My husband…good…maybe too good,’ she laughed. ‘He is with family. Today party in Dubai. Me...I am here. This my house.’ She gestured towards the immaculate living room. How she kept it so clean with her hyperactive progeny, I will never know.

‘And your family?’

‘My family – no party. Hmm… one second...’ she pulled out her phone and typed into the translator. ‘Gaza is a complicated situation,’ it spat out. 

Ahmed and Mariam had moved into the first of our four unit block last November. I first saw them in the front yard as I stepped out of my airport taxi. Bible study was starting in 10 minutes, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet new neighbours.

He was an engineer and a friend had told him that Australia was a good place to live. Upon that review, he moved his family from the Middle East to our small suburb in Melbourne.

She was from Palestine, one of fifteen children (fifteen! I exclaimed) and held degrees in psychology and counselling.
‘After graduating, then married, then Dubai,’ she explained. Then children.

Ahmed had been working overtime in the weeks leading up to his departure. His mother was ill and he wanted to see her, perhaps for the last time. Mariam seemed unfazed at fending for herself for two weeks, declining my offers to help with shopping.
‘Thank you but I know how to go,’ she reassured me. ‘One supermarket – bus and walk 10 minutes, no problem. Other supermarket: train and walk 5 minutes. I am OK.’

And really, it turns out, she was OK. Slowly, and between sips of tea, she described the complex situation back home. Her family had been evacuated from their house in southern Gaza. They were now in tents, along with everyone in the whole country it seemed. It was summer now, but the war wouldn’t be over before winter. We both glanced at the inclement weather outside.
‘Not good’, she sighed. ‘Very bad’.

Aisha was now filling my empty lap with her toys. Ramy had found my keys and was transporting them in his dump truck. Both children blissfully unaware of their grandparents’ plight.

Mariam refilled my tea and placed a slice of semolina cake in front of me.
‘And you? How are you?’

‘Me? I am good!’ (War was foreign to me; how could I be anything but excellent?) ‘I worked late last night. On Sunday, we lost our soccer game – again! This weekend I will be away hiking. I hope it won’t be wet like today!’

‘You always busy,’ she laughed. ‘You, strong girl.’

It was true that I always thought of myself as a strong, independent woman: left home at 17, titled ‘Dr’ at 22, travelled the world at 25, purchased unit 4 last year. But the more I waffled on about my week, the more I wondered what the true measures of strength were.

I spotted the time.
‘Eight-thirty! I’d better let you get them to bed. Hey Ramy, can I have my keys please?’

Ramy planted the keys in my palm and a kiss on my cheek. His sister clung to me in protest, tears welling up under her long lashes.
‘Don’t cry Aisha! I’ll be back another day. You know where I live!’

‘Thank you, my friend. Please come again.’ Mariam meant it.

‘I will! Send my greetings to Ahmed. Let me know if you need anything!’

‘Yes, shookran, I am OK.’

The kids blew me kisses through the window; their mother stood behind the curtain.

I zipped up my jacket, tucked my hair into my hood and stepped out into the rain.

I knew who the strong independent woman was.

_______________

*An Eid greeting - Eid being the festival to celebrate the end of the month-long Ramadan fast.  

 ^Thank you