I noticed her stuttering along the pavement at nearly five o’clock, her walker’s wheels squeaking with each stride.
Two supermarket bags, one containing a loaf of bread and many cans and the other containing something warm wrapped in a towel and packed in takeout cartons, hung off the handles.
She was unaware that I was observing from the other side of the street.
She was resolute and concentrated, as if this small patch of pavement were a mission she would not fail to complete.
Miss Inez was someone I had seen previously.
lived three homes down the street, waved at the mailman as if it were a formal appointment, and kept her curtains open at all times.
She was different today, though.
Perhaps exhausted.
Taking deep breaths.
Nevertheless, she continued.
She gave me a kind wave when I eventually crossed over to inquire if she needed assistance.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“I’m just giving the Mitchell boy something hot.” He has spent the last three nights at home by himself because his mother is ill.
She repositioned the towel-wrapped bag and continued to move.
“I understand what it’s like,” she said quietly.
“To feel lost.”
