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The Most Lovely Morning

Amanda McNeil

    A hint of winter spices the fall morning in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Hospital employees, teachers, key holders of stores, and committed students bustle along the brick paved streets and sidewalks, dashing into traffic to cross the street with the bravery of a bear--or perhaps the foolishness of a fleeing antelope. Although some scrubs layered over long-sleeved tshirts or under fleece jackets dot the herd, most don the look of a professional in the cooler climes--tights with boots under a classic pencil skirt topped by a warm suit jacket for the women. A typical suit and tie for the men. It’s not yet cool enough to layer on a winter jacket with a wool pashmina or cashmere scarf and finely tailored gloves yet. But today there is an anomaly among the swarm. One solitary person in an ankle-length, quilted, gray winter jacket shuffles among the crowd. Perhaps shuffles is the wrong word. Shuffle used to allude to a quiet, slow determination combined with slightly uncoordinated movements, but now in the songs and the vernacular it tends to tell us of an energetic dance. So, the figure is not so much shuffling as meticulously stepping forward a few mere inches at a time surrounded by people taking long, energetic strides, quickly leaving the figure in their dust.
    The figure wears what locals call a “beanie”--a knit cap--pulled down low over gray hair pulled back into a bun. A skirt nearly as long as the coat repeatedly attempts to static cling to her black tights. Perhaps these tights are her one attempt at staying in with the local fashion, or perhaps she just likes the color black. Inexplicably, the front of her coat is completely open--not partially zipped or buttoned in any way. Her face is surprisingly largely free of wrinkles and relaxed into a happy semi-smile. While the others rush around her, sometimes harumphing as they dodge around her slow-moving frame, she seems to exist within her own tube of transport, completely unperturbed by either the morning stress or the declarations of frustration around her. This fall morning is entirely hers.
    It takes her five minutes to walk to the two blocks from the main bustle down a side street to a city bus stop. A Harvard building stands across the street. Through the windows can be seen large professorial desks and shelves stuffed full of books. No students come to or from the building yet. It is too early for meetings with the professor. Directly behind the bus stop is a US post office, open much earlier than those outside of city limits. People fly in and out of it dropping off letters and packages, hurrying to get errands done before their first duties of the day.
    Sitting on one of the cold black marble benches at the stop, a Latina woman speaks furiously in Spanish into her smart phone while tapping her iPad at a frenzied pace. Her professional briefcase sits, temporarily forgotten, by her side zipped firmly against the contents that fill it to the brim. Standing at the stop next to a tree with a trunk so tiny that you could easily wrap your thumb and forefinger around it--indeed it can barely be called a tree--is a 20-something young professional man holding a cup of iced coffee from the local independent coffee shop. His fingers wrapped around it seem to be almost blue, yet he stares stoically ahead, ignoring the discomfort. Black ear buds plug his ears and descend into the depths of his pants pocket. He periodically checks his watch for the time, but studiously ignores the people in his immediate vicinity.
    The elderly woman briefly stares at the marble benches, pondering, but eventually moves to stand on the other side of the tree from the young professional. She attempts to catch his gaze, but he quickly looks away and instead gently bops his head to the beat of whatever it is he is listening to. The woman gives a sad shake of her head and instead watches the traffic as it goes by. Every minute or so someone honks their horn for some unkown reason. People rush by on the street, already engaged in business and academic discussions with each other. Some wear nametags on a lanyard around their necks for an academic symposium occurring that day. The woman tries to make out the name of the event, but her eyes are too old and frail to read the small print without digging out her glasses. One of the symposium attendees, a bespectacled Asian male, spots her staring and scowls at her. She sighs and looks away at the same speed with which she does everything. Slowly and deliberately.
    With a mechanical groan of shifting gears, the bus appears around the corner about two blocks away. The man throws out his now empty coffee cup. The woman sitting on the bench slings the strap of her briefcase over her shoulder then stands, managing to hold onto briefcase, iPad, and cell phone. The elderly woman slides her right hand into the pocket of her winter jacket, pulling out a handful of coins, lint, and a cough drop wrapper. After yelling one last sentence into her phone, the businesswoman sticks it in her pocket and immediately starts coughing, a low, hacking sound that calls up from memory the awful feeling of phlegm stuck in the chest.
    The elderly woman and the young man notice the coughing, but whereas the young man shoots the businesswoman an annoyed looks and puts a couple more feet between himself and her germs, the elderly woman slides her left hand into her left coat pocket, pulling out a cough drop. She shuffles forward two steps toward the businesswoman, “Excuse me, miss, would you like a cough drop?” she holds it out, a wasting away shadow of a toddler offering up her last piece of candy to a friend.
    The businesswoman shoots her an embarrassed look, “No, I’m fine thank you,” her thanks immediately interrupted by more coughing.
    “Are you sure, dear?” the elderly woman’s English lilts and jumbles a bit in a light accent reminiscent of a youth spent in Eastern Europe or Russia.
    “I said I’m fine!” the businesswoman snaps and moves away from the elderly woman, digging into her briefcase in search of her bus pass.
    The elderly woman’s face falls, momentarily highlighting the wrinkles present on her thin, aging skin, but at this moment the bus pulls up to the curb, and the woman quickly reverts to her calm demeanor.
    The young man has his pass at the ready, pulling it from his trouser pocket. He steps up to the bus door with it held out toward the token machine beside the driver. His long legs take the high step easily, and he taps his card against the machine quickly. The acceptance ding echoes through the bus and out onto the curb.
    Still coughing periodically into her elbow, the businesswoman follows suit and momentarily has claimed a seat along the middle of the bus.
    Smiling up at the driver, the elderly woman casts a brief glance at the high step currently existing between the floor of the bus and the curb of the road, “Good morning young man,” her voice cheerily wavers, “Would you mind kneeling the bus for me? That’s quite the step for my old legs.”
    The driver may or may not glance at her; it is difficult to tell through the sunglasses he wears, but without a word the bus beeps, creaks, and groans as he kneels the bus down to the curb for her. Someone from within the bus sighs a deep sigh at this unnecessary delay.
    Even with the bus knelt, the woman can barely raise her leg high enough to take the step. She inches forward and begins placing her dimes one by one into the token machine. Sixty cents for seniors.
    Plink.
    A few seconds’ pause.
    Plink.
    Another pause.
    Plink.
    Plink.
    Plop.
    She’s dropped her fifth dime. Sighs and dissatisfied murmurs erupt from the back of the bus. This pick-up has taken nearly three minutes already. “Oh dear,” the woman states as she begins looking for her dime on the floor of the bus. She bends partly at the waist, squinting.
    The bus driver, previously encountering the entire morning with a poker face, sighs and gets down off his seat. His dreadlocks fall over the sides of his face as he examines the floor then straightens up with the rescued dime, plinking it into the machine.
    “Oh, thank you young man,” the woman responds, “My eyesight is not what it used to be.”
    “Yeah, no problem, but put the rest in so we can go, ok? I can’t move when you’re in front of the yellow line.” He gestures at the line painted on the floor just behind the token machine. His tone is not unkind, but stressed and rushed. He has a schedule to keep. Still, the woman’s face falls at his response, and she plinks the final dime in then shuffles back behind the yellow line, seeking a seat.
    The instant she starts moving, the driver raises the bus. It is finished raising just as she crosses the yellow line, and the driver pulls the bus back into traffic. The bus gives its customary starting jolt, and the woman barely manages to grasp one of the metal poles to keep from falling. She gives an oof, but doesn’t complain. People of all ages and ethnicities fill the bus, although they are predominantly working aged folk engaging in their commute. One woman with a baby in a stroller stands near the back door of the bus. Two highschool students do their homework together on the double seat they’re sharing. One other elderly person is on the bus, but the rest are young to middle aged. He is an old black man, half-dozing in his seat with a newsie cap pulled down over his eyes. The jolt of the bus brings him awake for a moment, and he glances around at the scene.
    All of the seats are full, including the ones designated for the elderly or disabled, which are filled with entirely young to middle-aged able-bodied people, except for the seat he himself is in. His eyes fall upon the elderly woman in the winter coat. Her pale hand clasps the metal hand-hold in a near death-grip, turning her knuckles a pale blue. He casts a stern gaze at the younger people around him. The ones managing to stay awake on the early morning ride either avoid his gaze by becoming instantly busier in their consumption of books, newspapers, and electronic tablets, or close their eyes feigning sleep.
    The old man sighs, grabs a hand hold on the pole nearest to himself, and pulls himself up from his seat, “Here, honey, take my seat,” he calls out to the elderly woman.
    The bus jolts to a halt at a stoplight, and the woman breathes a sigh of relief, “Oh thank you, sir. You’re a real gentleman,” she hurriedly shuffles to the seat, managing to collapse into it just before the bus jerks back into motion.
    “Well, someone around here’s gotta be,” he pointedly replies. No one looks the least chagrined. “Besides, the next stop is mine anyway.”
    “Oh, well still. Thank you.”
    He inches forward toward the door as the bus slows down.
    “Don’t mention it. You have a nice day, y’hear?” he exits the bus.
    “You too!” she calls after him. A smile now lights up her face, granting a hint of the youthful beauty once present there. A faint hint of color brightens her cheeks. She pulls a newspaper and pencil from somewhere inside her coat and focuses in on the daily Sudoku.
    The morning routine of the bus swirls around her. Some stops nearly empty the bus near popular places of work like a hospital and an academic building. Other stops near residential streets refill it. The elderly woman glances up periodically venturing smiles at people. None return them except for one baby being held in a frazzled mother’s arms. She smiles and giggles at the woman just as the mother is rushing off the bus.
    The semi-robotic recording of a man’s voice announce through the bus speakers, “Main Street at Maple Lane.” The woman raises her hand to the side of the bus just behind the head of the middle-aged man next to her. He is attempting to read a library book, but his eyes keep drooping. She firmly presses on the yellow tape that runs along the sides of the bus, and the voice announces, “Stop requested.”
    The bus comes to a quick halt at the intersection. On the right-hand side of the street immediately next to the stop is a classic New England style Episcopalian Church. It is whitewashed with a large steeple and bell in the tower. A small gay pride flag flies in front of it alongside a sign reading “All welcome here.” The well-mowed grass is various shades of brown and green from the recent frosts and is carpeted in colorful leaves that have fallen from the large maple tree in front of the church. Some of the leaves are in piles indicating that the children of the members were playing in the leaves at some point yesterday. Perhaps between Sunday School and the main church service.
    The woman starts to stand, a slow process accented by her squinting her face in pain. Looking toward the back of the bus, the driver impatiently calls, “Someone getting off?”
    “Yes, coming,” replies the woman, inching her way toward the bus door. People glare at her in the accusatory quiet that she momentarily breaks by saying to the driver, “Have a nice day.”
    “You too,” he automatically replies.
    Just as she reaches the door, a young, female voice sotto whispers, “I really do wish seniors would be considerate and not slow down the buses during rush hour.”
    The elderly woman pauses at the door of the bus; the only indication that she has heard this statement from a younger member of her gender, but she bites her lip and continues off the bus. The doors slam shut behind her, and the bus pulls away after a brief hesitation at the stop sign at the intersection. Turning toward the church, the woman resolutely continues on.
    A small, laughing boy whose windbreaker and backpack are both falling off suddenly rounds the corner of Maple Lane and nearly knocks her over. His mother, rushing after him, calls a half-hearted apology toward the woman and continues chasing her son down the street, “Nicky, slow down! Mommy can’t keep up!”
    The woman gives her head a slight shake and starts up the front walk toward the church. Instead of ascending the steps to the door, though, she turns to the path running toward the side. It turns from cement to dirt, and she slows her step, even so managing to catch her toe on a wayward rock. Her breathing is heavier from the exertion, but she continues on her mission.
    Rounding to the back of the church, a graveyard surrounded by an iron fence comes into view. The gate with a sign of vague open cemetery hours--dawn to dusk--was propped open at some point earlier by the pastor or his wife with a rock.
    The graves range from new to old. Neatly kept to completely ignored. The markers are sometimes a simple piece of granite flat on the ground with names and dates to ornate, large angels standing guard over the dead.
    Progressing into one of the newer sections, the woman’s face lights up at the sight of a rather unique marker. It is a small, granite bench over a plot covered in pots of wildflowers. The woman walks carefully among the pots and sighs, her first sigh of the day, as she runs her fingers along the name and dates engraved in the right-hand side of the bench.

Charles M. Dubois
Born: June 1, 1925
Died: November 15, 2010
Beloved husband.


    The woman pulls a cloth from inside her coat and wipes the bench down. Then she turns and pulls out a small black stone with specks of white in what is naturally nearly a heart shape and places it on the edge of one of the pots.
    “I found this near our favorite cafe yesterday evening, Charlie. The one with the raspberry pastries you love and the,” she chuckles, “Irish coffee I can’t ever seem to do without. It made me think of us.”
    She turns back toward the bench, runs her fingers along the name again, and, sighing, sits down on the left-hand side of the bench, placing her hand on top of the carving.
    “After I went to the cafe last night for a sandwich and some espresso, I went home and sat in our living room listening to Cat Stevens. I’m working on a sweater. Don’t know who I’ll give it to now that you’re gone. Maybe the minister. He does such a fine job maintaining things here, you know.
    “Anyway, I didn’t think anything could possibly match such a lovely evening. I sat there with the windows open, beautiful jams flowing into my ears, soft Alpaca yarn in my fingers, but this morning, Charlie, I had the most lovely morning today.
    “I met a man on the bus who looked just like you, Charlie, I swear he did. He was the same fine shade of dark chocolate and even was wearing a newsie cap just like you always did favor, might still favor up in heaven, who knows if you wear clothes up there though,” she chuckles.
    “I thought for sure I was on my way to join you, and the good Lord had sent you to escort me, but it turned out that it was just a kind man offering up his seat to me. For a moment, it reminded me of how you always took care of me, Charlie. It made me feel just like old times.”
    She pats the seat beside her and appears to stare off into the distance at the back of the church and the fall scenery, but anyone can tell she is truly looking at memories. Memories of her and Charlie.



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