What the Widow Saw That Day…

This story is told from the perspective of a 63-year-old woman…

It happened in the most unlikely place — this secondhand lesson of sorts. And though not exclusively at my expense, I must confess to being very ashamed at having learned it so late in life. Who knows; maybe it was the world’s way of casting a spell on my eyes — I don’t really know. What I do know is that somehow that day, the universe managed to touch and thaw a very jaded and icy heart. My heart…

I was 63 years old on that lovely spring day. It was the kind of day where even I — a bit of a grump, they say — could not ignore the many beautiful sights and smells that encompass the birth of a new season. Having recently buried my husband of 39 years, it was not unusual for me to be found alone, having my lunch among the flutter and din of the pigeons so common to Vanity Hill Park.

Connected to the park by a series of lovely cobbled walkways is Vanity Hill Cemetery — a convenience that allows me to visit my beloved by walking a mere 30 or so mournful strides down the nearest pathway. These daily walks make my children happy because I’m getting out of the house again, but to be honest, I’m just glad to be free from their constant suggestions regarding my mental and emotional well being!

It was during just such a day that while struggling to remain among the living, I became witness to a most unusual and pathetic scene. It involved two very different characters who were engaged in some sort of ruckus. The first was a rather dapper and haughty fellow — the type of gentleman one might expect to find managing a bank, let’s say. Tugging on the handsomely dressed stranger’s overcoat was a man whose ragged and dirty clothing bespoke of one long-allergic to the idea of earning a wage! Having worked for the better part of 40 years, I was appalled by the drama that had started out as a rather comical diversion and was now becoming little more than a disgusting display of shameful begging!

To this day, It saddens me that I was consciously willing the gentleman (who by now had begun to raise his walking stick above his head) to thrash the fool a wicked lick and send him away with a well-learned lesson! In fact, the gentleman was quite vocal in his plan to do exactly that, but it seemed to have no effect on the would-be beggar, who, if anything, had become even more persistent with each tug of the man’s coat. Fortunately, it was at this exact moment that my heart — near about to burst — received the proverbial blow that would forever change its hardened state.

The beggar, trembling with fear, dropped quickly to his knees while extending his left hand to ward off the pending lash. With a single tear streaking his weathered cheek, he reached with his free hand into a ratty cloth pouch that hung on his hip, producing a rather fine, leather-made billfold. Having felt his own trouser pocket to be bare, the “gentleman” snatched the wallet, thumbed the currency therein, and simply walked away.

I was left to gaze in shame as the unfortunate Samaritan gathered himself up. When I made to approach him, he scurried a few feet away, stopping suddenly to retrieve a bit of biscuit that only moments ago, I had thrown to the pigeons.

I don’t believe I will ever forget the look in his eyes when, after biting into that soiled bread, he smiled, turned his withered back and walked away, disappearing beyond the shadows of a tombstone that only one year ago, was inscribed by my very own heart.

Dear Medium Family, When I was a boy, there were several elderly women who lived alone in my neighborhood. Being a foster child, I suppose I developed an affinity for them because I could sense some of the very same feelings of loneliness and abandonment in them that I was unable to identify in my own life.

I still have very fond memories of the hours spent in their kitchens chatting away about my 7-year-old self, or listening to them regale me with stories about their lives, their late husbands, and sadly, about their children who seldom (if ever) bothered to visit.

Thank you for allowing me to share this story with you, and if you enjoyed it, you might also like:

And if you’re like me, and stories of hope and healing make you all weepy and filled with gratitude, I know you’ll enjoy this by Liberty Forrest, Author