Silent Streets of Sorrow
One ninety four year mother, grandmother and great grandmother sat all by her lonely self in her Manhattan apartment looking out on Fifth Avenue dreaming of the days not so long ago when looking out her window was quite interesting. There used to be a constant hustle and bustle of the cars and the taxis weaving in and out in an intricate traffic dance, barely avoiding scraping each other. There used to be many friends and family frequently dropping by. She was able to call for a taxi and go to the theatre. Not anymore. The old lady peered out onto the almost empty avenue and turned back dejectedly back to her living room. She sat down and glumly watched television. Eventually she smiled to herself. Not to worry. Two of her grandchildren were coming to visit her that evening. They planned to cook for her and make her feel like a beloved queen.
At another part of town, a family sat quietly weeping in their living room. This was a house in mourning. A few days ago, they had lost the mainstay and bloodline of their lives. They almost visibly throbbed with pain. Their beloved wife, mother and grandmother just lost her battle to that deadly and silent monster called cancer, just a few days before Mothers Day. They had gathered around her deathbed as they helplessly watched her struggle with Death. She struggled and struggled but she struggled in vain. Death had taken a firm grip upon her and finally wrested the last vestige of life from her worn out body. What were they going to do? Oh what were they going to do? How were they going to survive without her? They were in the throes of excruciating pain and still more was to come.
A forty something year old mother, a kind and gentle soul, a giver of love and compassion, rose up early that Sunday morning. She was an operating room nurse. Sundays were her only chance to rest. Slowly she dressed and tiptoed down the stairs and started preparations for that evening’s meal. Her youngest daughter was just six years old. Her husband suffered debilitating pain. Her mother was an invalid. Her mother normally had a caregiver. Because of the pandemic, the caregiver refused to travel for fear of getting the virus. It fell upon the daughter to attend to the mother these days. She bathed her, fed her and took her out to sit in the sun, while at home her little girl, wearing her little mask, tirelessly ran back and forth in their garden. Back and forth she went, back and forth… There were no longer any ballet lessons or school to ho to. There were no little friends to play with her, to jump rope with, to go down the slides with or play on the swing. She felt the nuclear of her close knit family had become fractured. No cousins, aunts and uncles to visit. Could a little girl even begin to make any sense of what was happening? How could she? Even the adults could not grasp the reason this curse that has befallen upon their universe.
Across the street, from my kitchen window, I gazed at this lone child in pity. My Kelly had ordered us chelo kebab with all the trimmings, as a treat for Mothers Day. I set the table and waited for him to come back with the food. I grilled more tomatoes and onions, thinking we would eat it all. We did not even eat a fraction of what he had brought. Our meal was done. We cleared the table, washed the dishes and put away the rest of the food. He went upstairs to take a nap. I sat at the kitchen table and looked out of the window. The house was still. The street was deserted. The world seemed silent. Across the street, the little girl continued to run back and forth, back and forth; trying to expend her pent up energy.
And that is Mothers Day in the Age of the Pandemic…