Blanche’s Lonely Life
On the next block from our house there was a very religious woman who lived all alone in her house. In summer, she sat on her stoop and vigorously rocked away in her rocking chair. You could guess the level of her anxiety by the speed at which she did so. At her most anxious level, she sometimes she spoke to herself in a semi-hysterical tone. She had a habit of walking from one Catholic Church to another whenever the urge took her. All day long she walked back and forth from one church to the other. She seemed to be compulsively obsessed with this task. She had a brother who was a priest. He seldom came to visit her. She had no friends. It was said that she had once attempted to steal a baby from one of the neighbors. Since she was slightly disturbed, the charges were dropped. Everyone avoided her because of her strangeness. To me, she seemed to be a pathetic and desperately lonely soul. Sometimes, when she passed by our house, I would smile at her. She would stop, grateful to be acknowledged. She would quote some verses from the scriptures, smile happily and hurry along, probably to catch prayers at another church.
When we first moved to the neighborhood, her father was still alive. He was frail and old. He was in the habit of walking past our house each day. One day, I noticed him holding onto a tree in front of the house as if for dear life. He was shaking violently. They were very private, so I hesitated to intrude, but the man definitely needed help. Finally, I walked up to him and gently asked him if I could walk him home. Embarrassed, he shook his head and walked away slowly. I regretted offering help. Somehow I felt I had injured his pride. Since that incident, I pretended not to notice him, in order not to hurt his feeling. After he passed away, Blanche truly did not have anyone to engage with. Years passed and she aged. Her footsteps faltered. Two years ago, I noticed she was in a wheelchair, being pushed by an aide. She looked content. There was a sweet and peaceful smile spread across her face. At last, she has someone to talk to, I thought to myself.
Then winter came and the pandemic took over. Everyone sequestered in their homes. No one ventured out to socialize. No one stopped to chat on the sidewalks. People barely ventured out of their homes. This summer I heard the sound of happy laughter coming from that silent lonely house. From a back window, I noticed a young family had moved in. I saw a father and mother playing with their children. I heard the gleeful peals of children’s laughter echoing from the yard. I heard the sound of a ball going through the hoops over and over again. Curious, I asked neighbors if the house had been sold. The answer was no. Blanche had passed away, and her nephew and his family moved in. I enjoy the sound of the children’s laughter. I enjoy watching that young family’s interaction with each other. But as I observed their joyous interaction, I wondered what would have happened if they had visited her when she lived. She would have loved that. That poor lonely soul. In my mind’s eye, I picture her silently sitting on her porch, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth…
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